Trading My Cheap Fiancé For Gold

The ninety-ninth time he postponed our wedding.

That was when I called the coordinator and told them to swap my name out for his childhood sweethearts.

Miss Delia, I understand what you're asking, but are you absolutely sure? the planners voice crackled through the line, heavy with hesitation. It actually seems like Mr. Keith isn't planning on pushing it back this time.

I stared at the PDF proof on my laptop screen.

Groom: Keith.

Bride: Delia.

But down in the designers notes, a single line of tiny text read: "Adjust the floral arrangements to the champagne-gold palette Fiona prefers."

Fiona. Keiths childhood best friend.

He had assured me she was only offering a second opinion. Yet, every detail of this weddingfrom the floral selection to the party favors, down to the walk-in trackhad been decided by her. Even when it came to my wedding dress, she had merely glanced at it and offered a dismissive, "A mermaid cut would suit her better."

I dragged the design file into the trash bin on my desktop and replied, my voice flat and even: "I'm sure. Change the brides name to Fiona."

This wedding was so saturated with her presence that it was never mine to begin with. I was simply handing it over to them, fully intact. And in doing so, I was finally pulling myself out of this farce.

From here on, the world was wide. Let him cling to his old memories; I was going to find my own horizon.

"Understood. We'll make the adjustment immediately," the coordinator replied, her tone careful, almost tip-toeing. "But... should we notify Mr. Keith beforehand?"

I stared at the dark screen of my laptop. "No need."

I hung up, and the silence of the empty house settled over me.

I looked around the three-story townhouse in Brooklyn that Keith and I were supposed to move into next month. Every square inch of it was pristine, tailored, and expensive. But the French crystal chandelier hanging in the living room was only there because Fiona had deemed it "tasteful." The silk sheets in the master bedroom were chosen because Fiona said they were "better for the skin." Even the reed diffuser in the foyer was scented with Wild BluebellFionas signature fragrance.

I felt like an intruder who had accidentally wandered into someone elses private sanctuary.

Walking into the master bathroom to wash my face, my eyes caught a used Tom Ford lipstick sitting on the marble vanity. The shade was a deep, vintage crimsonthe exact color Fiona always wore. Right next to it lay a delicate pearl earring.

I stared at that smudge of red on the gold casing. I knew exactly whose it was.

My phone vibrated, and a voice memo from Keith came through.

"Delia, the coordinator mentioned you called them a few times today. Is everything okay?"

I typed a quick reply: Nothing. Just checking on a few small details. Its handled.

A few minutes passed before his brief reply came back: K.

Then, he sent a photo.

In it, Fiona was standing in front of a tri-fold mirror, wearing a stunning champagne-gold couture gown, looking back over her shoulder.

Fiona is trying on her bridesmaid dress, but the zipper got stuck. Just helping her with it. The shop has great pieces, but shes having trouble deciding. Want to come over and help her look?

My hands grew cold as I stared at the message.

Just last week, I had gone to try on my wedding dress entirely alone. Locked in the dressing room, suffocating under the heavy, complex laces of a gown that didn't fit, I had called him in tears.

His background had been loud with traffic and chatter. "Delia, just ask one of the shop girls to help you. Fionas car broke down on the highway, and I need to go get her."

I had stood there in that ill-fitting mermaid dressthe one Fiona had picked outunder the pitying gaze of the boutique staff for thirty minutes before quietly changing back into my clothes.

And now, he was carefully adjusting the hem of her gown. He even wanted me there to play the appreciative audience.

I dialed his number.

"Are you on your way?" he asked as soon as he picked up.

"No," I said, my voice remarkably steady. "Keith, lets call it off. The wedding"

Before I could finish, Fionas playful, sweet voice drifted through the speaker.

"Keith, look at this one! Does it look good? Oh, stop staring at your phone and help me choose!"

Keiths usually detached, cool tone softened instantly into something warm and indulgent. "Beautiful. Honestly, Fiona, anything you pick looks beautiful on you."

Then, seemingly remembering I was still on the line, he spoke back into the receiver. "What were you saying about the wedding? Its already set, Delia. Stop trying to change things at the last minute."

"It's nothing," I said, a dry smile touching my lips. I didn't even have the energy to feel disappointed anymore. "Take your time helping her."

"Good. Fiona is the bridesmaid, and her dress represents my family's image today. I need to make sure its right. Don't be so sensitive."

He paused, perhaps sensing that his tone had been too sharp. "I just bought Fiona a ruby necklace, and the jeweler threw in a small diamond pendant as a promotional gift. I was going to refuse it, but Fiona thought it would look nice on you. I'll bring it back tonight."

"Delia!" Fionas voice cut in clearly. "Keith is such a typical guy, don't mind him. The freebie isn't anything spectacular, but I know you usually dress so simply, so I figured it would suit you perfectly. On the wedding day, we can both wear our necklaces. Think of it as my little blessing to you guys."

She wanted to stand beside me at the altar, parading the masterpiece while I wore the scrap, silently declaring to everyone in attendance who actually held Keiths heart.

It had been like this ever since she returned from Canada a year ago.

When he traveled for business, he bought Fiona limited-edition handbags worth tens of thousands, but would only toss a discounted bottle of duty-free perfume onto my nightstand. Later, he postponed our wedding date again and again just to fly across the country to secure some rare art piece she wanted for her gallery.

When I confronted him, his defense was always entirely logical to him:

"Fiona grew up accustomed to the finer things. You don't really care about fashion anyway, so why does it matter? Besides, the wedding delays were accidents. Next time, I promise we won't push it."

And Fiona would always laugh, adding, "Oh, don't be so hard on her, Keith. Actually, Delia, I have some of the old gifts Keith gave me. If you want them, I can send them over."

"Thank you both," I said softly, and hung up the phone.

When disappointment reaches its absolute limit, even words feel like a waste of breath.

I went into the bedroom and opened the closet. More than half of it was filled with "status-appropriate" designer pieces Keith had purchased for me to wear to corporate events. The tags were still attached.

I reached for my old, battered suitcasethe one I had brought with me when I first moved in. I packed a few casual outfits, some daily essentials, and my laptop.

My phone lit up with a message from Victoria, my editor-in-chief at the magazine.

Delia, the transfer to the Paris bureau has been officially approved. Are you certain you want to leave tomorrow? Isn't tomorrow your wedding day?

I looked around the room, breathing in the faint scent of wild bluebells, my eyes resting on the vintage red lipstick on the counter.

Yes, I'm sure, I wrote back. Because there's going to be a different bride.

At ten in the evening, the front door clicked open, and Keith walked in, with Fiona trailing a step behind him.

"Here, Delia," Keith said, sliding a plain black velvet box across the kitchen island toward me.

The lid popped open, revealing a tiny, thin silver chain with a speck of a diamond.

Fiona was standing right beside him, the dazzling pigeon-blood ruby necklace already resting against her collarbone. The deep, blood-red stone caught the light, sending sharp glints of crimson across the room. My fingers stilled.

On our first anniversary, I had stopped in front of a jeweler's window, admiring a very similar ruby necklace. Keith had pulled me away immediately.

"It's tacky," he had said. "You'd look like new money wearing that."

It wasn't that the rubies were tacky. It was just that they were tacky on me.

"Look at him, Delia," Fiona giggled, touching the ruby at her throat. "He didn't even bother to ask for a gift box. But honestly, that little diamond really does suit you. You don't go out to events much anyway, so anything larger would just go to waste."

I quietly closed the cheap box. "You're right. It would be wasted on me."

Keith blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He looked at me a little longer than usual, as if finally noticing how quiet I was being.

But Fiona had already bypassed us, settling onto the sofa with a stack of wedding itineraries she pulled from her designer bag.

"Oh, Delia, by the way," she called out, her tone light and airy. "I swapped the main wedding car for a Porsche convertible. I get terribly car sick, and Keith agreed that the open air would be better for me. You don't mind, do you?"

My wedding. But the lead car had to be changed for the bridesmaid.

I lowered my eyes, my gaze falling on the suitcase parked by the foyer. "Do whatever you want."

Keiths eyes followed my gaze, freezing when they hit the suitcase. It was the same one I had used the day I moved in with him.

"Are you going on a trip?" His brow furrowed. "The wedding is tomorrow."

I looked at him, preparing to tell him the truth.

"Oh"

A sudden gasp cut me off. Behind us, Fionas water glass slipped from her hand, shattering against the hardwood floor.

"Keith, I'm so sorry..." she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest, her face pale. "I suddenly felt so lightheaded."

Keiths expression transformed instantly into sheer panic.

"Is it your heart? Did you catch a chill outside?" His voice was thick with desperation as he rushed to her side.

The explanation I had prepared died in my throat. I looked down at the broken glass on the floor. It was one of our couple mugs.

Last year, Keith had gifted Fiona a complete set of handmade Italian porcelain. When I asked him if we could have something that belonged only to us, he had dismissed me as petty. Later, he had lazily ordered a pair of custom photo mugs. It was the only time he had ever tried to appease me.

The mug with my face on it was now in pieces. It felt poetically timed.

"I told you not to drink cold water. Why don't you ever listen to me?" Keith was murmuring, his voice stern but laced with an undeniable tenderness. He didn't even notice the shattered porcelain by his shoe.

Last winter, when I ran a fever of 104 and could barely stand, Keith had only spared a moment to say, "Drink some water, take some Advil, and go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

Yet, Fiona merely dropped a glass, and he treated it like a medical emergency.

Fiona leaned heavily into his chest, looking up at him with weak, pleading eyes. "Keith, are you still going to dance the first dance with me tomorrow? Won't Delia be upset?"

Keith rubbed her back, speaking as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Youve wanted a chapel waltz since we were kids. I promised you, and I don't break my promises to you. Delia is sensible. Shes not the type to get jealous over something like this."

At my own wedding, the grooms first dance was reserved for the bridesmaid.

I watched them, wrapped up in each other, and a small, genuine laugh escaped my lips. Keith saw the curve of my mouth and assumed I was agreeing to play along.

"I'm glad you understand," he said, looking relieved. "I've always looked out for Fiona like a sister. Its just second nature to me now."

Fiona snuggled deeper into his arms. "Don't get the wrong idea, Delia. I still remember when we were kids and I wanted to see the fireworksKeith climbed over the school wall to take me, and his dad made him kneel on the cold floor all night as punishment. And the first time I fell in dance class, he carried me all the way home on his back. We really are just like siblings."

She sighed, a delicate, wistful sound. "I'm so jealous of you, though. After tomorrow, you'll officially be Mrs. Keith."

Keith looked down at her, his eyes soft with indulgence. "Alright, let's get you off your feet. Are you feeling any better?"

Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck, pouting. "A little bit. But only a little."

Keith gave a helpless, affectionate laugh. "Okay. Let me carry you up to the guest room so you can rest."

He paused, finally remembering I was standing there. "We have a long day tomorrow. Go to sleep early. Once Fiona is settled, I'll come back down."

He carried her up the stairs without looking back once. The bedroom door clicked shut, muffling their quiet laughter.

I didn't go to bedroom. I walked back to my suitcase, zipped my passport and documents into the side pocket, and closed the lid.

As the zipper clicked shut, a sharp, violent spasm tore through my stomach.

The pain was so sudden and intense that I collapsed onto the floor, cold sweat instantly soaking through my shirt. It was the chronic ulcer I had developed over the last three yearsthe result of countless late-night dinners where I drank myself sick to secure capital for Keiths startup when his company was on the brink of collapse.

Trembling, I pulled out my phone and dialed his number.

"Keith," I gasped, clutching my stomach. "My ulcer... it's flaring up. I can't move. Can you take me to the ER?"

The line went quiet for a beat.

Then, Fionas soft, nasal whimper drifted through the phone. "Keith, my chest still feels so tight..."

A second later, Keiths voice returned, hushed and strained. "Delia, Fionas heart rate just stabilized. Her condition is fragile, and I can't leave her side right now."

I curled tighter on the floor, the pain in my stomach feeling like a blade twisting repeatedly. "Keith, please. I'm really hurting."

There was another silence.

Then Fionas voice rose slightly in the background. "Keith, maybe you should go check on Delia?"

Before she could finish, Keith cut her off. "Don't push yourself, Fiona."

He spoke back into the phone, his tone clipping. "Delia, don't let your imagination run wild. Heart issues are critical; your stomach ache is just a flare-up. I'll call an ambulance for you right now."

The call ended.

I stared at the closed door at the top of the stairs. From the kitchen island to the staircase was barely fifteen paces. Yet, he wouldn't come down.

Ten minutes later, the flashing lights of the ambulance cast red and blue shadows across the living room windows. The doorbell rang. He still hadn't come down.

I had to drag myself off the floor, using the wall for support, and slowly make my way to the door. When the paramedics saw how pale I was, they immediately rushed forward to support me.

"Where is your family?" the medic asked, looking around the empty hallway.

I forced a weak smile. "Upstairs. Busy."

By the time I woke up, the sky was still dark. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose, and the cold drip of an IV was slowly running into the back of my hand.

Chelsea, my close friend and colleague from the magazine, was sitting by my bedside, her eyes red, clutching my travel document folder.

"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "An acute stomach bleed, and you were planning on boarding a flight to Paris tomorrow?"

My throat felt like sandpaper. "Did you manage to reschedule the ticket?"

Chelsea let out a dry, angry laugh. "Yeah, I got it moved to tomorrow night. But what about the wedding? Are you seriously telling me the bride is changing? Delia, tell me this is a joke."

I looked out the window at the graying sky. "It's not a joke. I changed it myself."

Chelsea froze. I handed her my phone.

On the screen was a confirmation email from the wedding coordinator sent at 2:00 AM.

Groom: Keith.

Bride: Fiona.

Chelsea stared at it for a long moment, then let out a sharp curse. "Does he know?"

I shook my head. "No. And he doesn't need to."

Before she could reply, the door to the room swung open.

Keith walked in, with Fiona close behind him. She was wearing a delicate white silk dress, with Keiths designer suit jacket draped over her shoulders. The ruby necklace around her neck was blinding under the harsh hospital fluorescent lights.

Seeing that I was awake, Keith let out a breath that sounded more like irritation than relief.

"The doctor said its nothing serious," he said. "Since you're awake, let's get things moving. We don't want to fall behind schedule."

Before I could ask what he meant, Fiona clapped her hands with a bright smile.

A crowd of people filed into the small hospital roomthe bridesmaids, the photographer, the makeup artists, and several of Keiths extended family members. They were carrying champagne-colored balloons, silk ribbons, and decorative signs.

Within minutes, the sterile white room was draped in wedding decor. A "Just Married" banner was hung directly over my bed, and a massive floral arrangement was placed right next to my IV stand.

It looked less like a wedding prep and more like a bizarre wake.

Chelsea stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. "She's literally hooked up to an IV! What do you think you're doing?"

Keiths brow furrowed. "Since shes stuck in the hospital, we're bringing the morning-of prep to her. Delia is sensible; she isn't going to mind."

Fiona immediately reached out, tugging gently on his sleeve. "Delia, I know this was my idea, but if you're really uncomfortable, we can stop. We can wait."

Even as she said the words, her eyes were darting toward the photographers lens, adjusting her posture.

Keiths face darkened. "Don't ruin the mood, Delia. Fiona spent hours organizing this backup plan."

I watched him. The IV needle in the back of my hand throbbed slightly, and a thin line of dark red blood was beginning to back up into the clear plastic tubing.

Keiths mother walked over, patting Fionas hand with a warm smile. "Fiona is always the thoughtful one. Out of everyone in Keiths life, you've always understood him best."

One of the bridesmaids laughed in agreement. "Seriously, we always thought Keith and Fiona would end up together. If Fiona hadn't insisted on keeping him in the brother-zone, there wouldn't have been room for anyone else."

As if suddenly remembering I was in the room, she added a quick, insincere smile. "Just kidding, Delia! Don't take it personally. Oh, by the way, the bridal games today were all planned by Fiona's friends. Since you're not feeling well, you can just watch. We're all family here anyway, so it doesn't matter if the bride can't fully participate."

Family.

Everyone in this room was connected to Fiona. Keiths relatives adored her, his friends knew her inside out, and even the bridesmaids were her inner circle.

And I, the actual bride, was lying in a hospital bed like an uninvited guest who had been handed a program at the last minute.

Keith finally stepped closer to the bed, reaching up to adjust the flow rate on my IV drip. He didn't say anything at first.

I looked up at him, the dull ache in my stomach still throbbing in waves, but my mind had never been clearer.

"Keith," I said quietly. "Do you truly believe that I am the one marrying you today?"

His hand paused, his brow drawing together in a tight line. "What kind of nonsense is this now?"

He checked his Rolex. "We have seven hours before the ceremony. I'm coming back to pick you up. Can't you just be happy for once?"

I smiled. "I am happy. In fact, I'm really looking forward to the surprise I have waiting for you at the venue."

"What surprise?" Keith asked, and for a split second, a genuine look of anticipation crossed his face.

It was an expression I hadn't seen in years.

When we first started dating, I had baked him a birthday cake from scratch. The frosting was lumpy and the writing was crooked, but he had stared at it like it was a work of art.

"If it's from you, Delia, I'll love it," he had told me back then.

Once, he had truly seen me. I hadn't been wrong about him in the beginning. He had just changed along the way.

As I looked at that fleeting glint of warmth in his eyes, Fiona stepped between us.

"What surprise, Delia? Did you get him a gift too?"

I didn't answer.

The nurse came in to remove my IV. As the needle slid out, a small bead of blood welled up on my skin. Keith looked at it, a brief shadow of concern passing over his face.

"The ceremony is starting soon. Get some rest," he said softly. "I'll be back to get you."

I held the cotton ball against my hand and looked up at him.

"Keith."

"What if I told you I don't want this wedding anymore? What if I want to just run away and elope? Today. Right now."

I held his gaze. "Would you walk out of this hospital with me and never look back?"

The room fell dead silent. The photographer slowly lowered his camera, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

Keiths expression hardened, the warmth vanishing instantly. "Delia, today is not the day for your tantrums."

Fionas eyes welled with tears on cue. "Is this because of me? If I'm causing trouble, I can just leave... I can book a flight back to Toronto tonight..."

Before she could finish, her knees buckled slightly. Keiths hand shot out instinctively, catching her by the waist.

"Fiona!"

He pulled her against him, looking back at me with sharp accusation in his eyes. "You see this? She's barely holding herself up, yet shes been running around making sure our wedding goes smoothly. Can you stop being so incredibly selfish?"

"I told you"

"I know," I interrupted him, my voice barely a whisper. "She's your sister. You have to take care of her."

I looked down at the cotton ball in my hand. It was entirely soaked in red.

I smiled. "I'm not angry anymore, Keith. I finally understand."

Keith let out a long breath, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "I'm glad you're finally seeing reason. I'll take Fiona back to get some rest, and the car will be here for you shortly."

He guided her toward the door, his arm securely around her waist.

The door clicked shut behind them.

I looked at the drop of blood on my knuckles.

I had given him one final chance. And as always, he chose her.

Only Chelsea and I remained in the room.

Her face was flushed with anger. "Are you really going to that venue?"

I peeled the tape off my hand, letting another drop of blood bead up, and pressed it down carelessly.

"No."

"Take me back to the townhouse."

Half an hour later, I stepped back into the house in Brooklyn.

The scent of wild bluebells hit me like a wall, cloying and suffocating. The kitchen counter was piled high with wedding favors and floral arrangements that had arrived yesterday. Champagne-colored silk ribbons draped gracefully along the banister.

Every single corner of this place belonged to Fiona's vision.

I dragged my suitcase up the stairs. The guest room door was slightly open. The house was empty; I didn't know where Keith had taken her to "rest."

Fionas cashmere wrap from last night was tossed carelessly over the arm of the chair. Her lipstick and earrings still sat on my vanity.

My home had been treated like her personal hotel.

I didn't look at them again. I opened the drawer of my nightstand and pulled out the ring box.

The band was incredibly thin. When he gave it to me, he had said, "A wedding ring is just a symbol, Delia. There's no need to be ostentatious."

But the ruby necklace around Fionas neck could have bought fifty of these rings.

I took the ring out and set it on the kitchen island. Beside it, I placed the cheap promotional diamond pendant, my house keys, the security fob, and the master wedding itinerary.

Finally, I picked up the official wedding invitation.

The bride's name had already been reprinted as Fiona. In the blank space at the bottom, I wrote a single line with a black pen:

Wishing you both a lifetime of happiness.

I capped the pen. The click sounded final, like a lock turning in a door.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

Keith: The bridal car is outside. Where are you?

A second message followed immediately: Stop playing games. Everyone is waiting at the hotel.

I didn't reply.

Chelsea helped me wheel my suitcase out to the waiting car. "I have your passport, visa, and ticket right here. The Paris office is expecting you."

I nodded.

Before stepping into the car, I looked back at the house one last time. The crystal chandelier was shining, the diffusers were active, and the wedding decorations were pristine.

But it had never been my home.

I closed the car door, sealing out the scent of wild bluebells.

Chelsea took my hand. "Let's go. Don't look back."

The drive to JFK, security, and boarding went without a hitch. I sat in my seat and switched my phone to airplane mode, ready to sever every tie to my past.

But before the plane could push back from the gate, the overhead speaker crackled to life.

"Apologies for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. Due to an emergency security request from the authorities, all departing flights on this corridor have been temporarily held. Is passenger Delia Smith currently on board?"