Chapter 1 - THE SOHO BRIDAL FITTING AND THE HOSPITAL WARD
The afternoon sunlight in Soho was bright and unforgiving, bouncing off the glass storefronts as I stepped out of the luxury bridal boutique carrying a garment bag containing my custom silk-and-lace wedding gown. Just one week remained until my wedding to Logan Vance, one of the most famous and successful pop stars in the entire country. We had been together for five years, weathering the relentless storms of his skyrocketing fame, paparazzi flashbulbs, and relentless public scrutiny. I believed we were an unbreakable team.
Then a man approached me near the corner of Mercer Street under the pretense of asking for a quick photo request for Logan’s fan club. Before I could even process his movement, he pulled a glass bottle from his deep coat pocket and hurled industrial-grade acid directly onto the right side of my face. The blinding, searing agony was immediate—a white-hot fire that felt like liquid sulfur eating through my skin, flesh, and bone. My horrific screams echoed off the brick walls as the pavement rushed up to meet me, and then the world collapsed into absolute darkness. When I finally drifted back to consciousness, I was lying in a private, high-security room at a Manhattan medical center, my entire face completely encased in thick, sterile white bandages.
