Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~11 min read
[ASPEN POV]
One week until I ruined someone’s wedding.
Seven days to transform from broke bartender into believable ex-mistress of a British aristocrat worth hundreds of millions.
No pressure.
I sat in the apartment Wednesday night—rent paid, eviction avoided, mother’s facility payment confirmed—surrounded by research materials like a detective solving a crime I was about to commit.
Laptop open: Seventeen tabs about Marius Khatri.
Phone: Voice recorder practicing my “backstory.”
Notebook: Timeline of our fake affair, memorized down to the minute.
This was insane. This was meticulous. This was survival.
“You’re spiraling,” Bailey said from the couch, still in her scrubs, watching me with concern that made my chest tight.
“I’m preparing.”
“For what, exactly? You said it was event planning.”
Right. The lie. I’d almost forgotten which version of reality I was selling.
“High-profile wedding. The planner wants me to know everything about the families. Background research.” Not technically untrue. Just missing the part where I was the bomb about to detonate everything.
Bailey didn’t look convinced, but she was too exhausted to push. “Just—be careful. Something about this feels off.”
Everything about this was off.
But four thousand dollars sat in my bank account, and my mother’s facility had sent a thank-you email instead of a collections notice, so “off” was relative.
After Bailey fell asleep, I dove back into research.
MARIUS KHATRI: The Target
Google search results painted a picture of expensive emptiness:
“Khatri Properties Announces Record Quarter” – Business Weekly
“Marius Khatri to Wed Allegra Thornton-Webb: Society Match of the Season” – Tatler
“The Khatri Empire: From Mumbai to Mayfair” – Financial Times Profile
Company website: Sleek. Professional. Khatri Properties—luxury real estate across London, Dubai, Singapore. Portfolio worth estimated £200M+. Marius listed as Director of European Acquisitions. Oxford educated. First-class degree in architecture.
Architecture. Not business. Interesting.
His LinkedIn: Sparse. Professional photo—god, he was gorgeous in a way that felt almost unfair. Sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes that looked straight through the camera. Controlled expression that gave nothing away.
Education: Oxford, 2011-2014. Before that: Private boarding school, all-boys, £40K per year.
This was old money. Real money. The kind that had been rich so long they forgot what struggling meant.
Social media: None. No Instagram. No Twitter. No Facebook. The man was a ghost.
But Allegra more than made up for his absence.
ALLEGRA THORNTON-WEBB: The Bride
Instagram: @AllegraThorntonWebb, 500K followers, verified.
Her feed was a masterclass in manufactured perfection: Charity galas in designer gowns, vacation photos from Santorini and St. Barts, carefully curated couple shots with Marius where they both looked expensive and distant.
Recent post from three days ago: Photo of her engagement ring (obscenely large diamond), caption: “One week until I marry my best friend! Cannot wait to become Mrs. Khatri 💍✨”
Comments ranged from supportive to savage:
- “You guys are GOALS! 😍”
- “Gold digger marrying for the name, we all see it”
- “He looks miserable in every photo lmao”
- “Arranged marriage realness”
She’d turned off comments after that.
I clicked through older photos. Found ones from before the engagement: Allegra at charity events, always photographed, always perfect, always—
Wait.
I zoomed in on a photo from eight months ago. Allegra at some gala, gorgeous in red. But in the background, partially obscured—a man. Dark hair. Expensive suit. His hand on her waist. Too intimate for random guest.
I reverse-image searched. Found another photo from different event. Same man. Same intimacy.
Comments on that one: “Who’s the guy?” “Not her fiancé lmao” “👀👀👀”
So Allegra had secrets too. Interesting.
I filed that away. Might be useful. Might be nothing.
Back to Marius.
News articles about the engagement were revealing in their uniformity:
“Sources close to both families confirm the union will merge two historic business empires…”
“The match has been discussed for years, finally coming to fruition…”
“Both families expressed delight at the advantageous alliance…”
Advantageous alliance. Not love story. Not romance. Business merger in formal wear.
Dominic had been telling the truth about that much.
I found exactly one photo of Marius that didn’t look staged: Candid shot from architecture conference in Barcelona, three years ago. He stood at the edge of the frame, holding a camera, photographing something off-screen. His expression—
He looked alive. Present. Real.
Every other photo: Controlled. Distant. Performing.
This man didn’t want to be Marius Khatri, heir to property empire. He wanted to be—what? Photographer? Architect? Someone who actually chose his own life?
Sympathy flickered in my chest.
I crushed it immediately.
Sympathy didn’t pay rent. And I was about to make his life explode.
THE BACKSTORY: Our Fake Affair
Dominic had provided a detailed packet—clearly created by someone with resources and zero moral qualms.
According to the fabricated evidence:
Marius and “Aspen Colby” met two years ago at architectural conference in New York City. (Marius had actually attended that conference—they’d done their homework.)
We’d had a three-month affair. Intense. Secret. Ended when he returned to London.
The “evidence”:
- Photoshopped images of me with Marius at NYC restaurants
- Fake receipts from hotels, dinners, museums
- Fabricated text messages spanning three months
- “Love letters” written in what was supposedly his handwriting
It was terrifyingly thorough.
Someone had spent serious money on this. The Photoshops were expert-level—I’d studied graphic design before dropping out, I knew good work. These images would fool everyone except maybe FBI forensics.
The receipts had actual restaurant logos, proper dates, amounts that matched menu prices from two years ago.
The text messages felt real. Intimate without being explicit. Smart. Funny. The kind of conversations that built connection.
Whoever created this had studied Marius. Had captured how he’d actually communicate.
It was brilliant and horrifying in equal measure.
I memorized every detail:
- We met at opening reception, bonded over discussion of Frank Lloyd Wright
- First date: Dinner at Le Coucou (French, West Village)
- He kissed me at Brooklyn Bridge overlook
- We spent weekends exploring museums, architecture tours
- His favorite drink: Single malt scotch, neat (Oban 14 specifically)
- He photographed me once, called me “more interesting than buildings”
- Ended when his family called him back to London for “business matters”
- We agreed to part ways, but I never stopped loving him
The story was romantic. Heartbreaking. Completely fake.
I practiced telling it until it felt real.
“We met at the architectural conference in New York…” I recorded myself, played it back, critiqued my delivery. Too rehearsed. Again. “We met in New York two years ago…” Better. More natural. Like remembering instead of reciting.
Bailey stirred on the couch. I lowered my voice.
By Thursday night, I could recite every detail: Restaurant names, dates, his supposed favorite everything. I’d studied photos of Marius until I could describe his expressions, his habits, the way he touched his beard when thinking.
I’d created a character: Aspen Colby, former lover, heartbroken woman who couldn’t let him marry the wrong person.
And Friday morning, that character would walk into Thornton Estate and begin her performance.
THURSDAY: Final Preparations
Bailey helped without knowing she was helping.
“If you’re working a high-society wedding, you need to look expensive,” she’d said, dragging me to consignment stores in neighborhoods we usually avoided.
We found a red dress. Not just red—blood red, form-fitting, the kind that commanded attention. The kind impossible to ignore.
Dominic had specified red in his instructions: “Memorable. Dramatic. When you object, everyone needs to see you immediately.”
Original price: $1,200. Consignment price: $80.
“This is perfect,” Bailey said, not knowing she was helping me select my villain costume.
Heels: Black, four-inch, from a different consignment store. I practiced walking in them. Had to be able to move fast if security came for me.
Makeup: I watched YouTube tutorials on “high-society event makeup.” Natural but expensive-looking. Polished. The kind that said “I belong here” even when I didn’t.
Hair: I’d just done my braids honey blonde last week. The timing was perfect. Memorable. Striking against my brown skin. Exactly what Dominic wanted: Impossible to ignore.
“You’re going to kill it,” Bailey said, proud.
If only she knew which “it” I was killing.
Thursday night, final message from Dominic:
Friday 8 AM. Thornton Estate, West Sussex. Ada Reeves expects you. Follow her lead. Be professional. Saturday at 2 PM, during ceremony, you execute. Don’t fail me.
I stared at the message. Deleted it. Tried to sleep.
Couldn’t.
At 3 AM, I gave up and visited my mother.
Maplewood Assisted Living was quiet at night. The night nurse let me in—she knew me, knew I came at weird hours when insomnia and guilt overwhelmed.
Mom was sleeping. Peaceful. No idea her daughter had become someone who crashed weddings for money.
I sat beside her bed. Held her hand.
“I’m doing something bad tomorrow, Mom,” I whispered. “Something you’d be ashamed of. But it’s for you. It’s so you can stay here where people know your name—even if you don’t know theirs. Where they’re kind. Where you’re safe.” My voice broke. “So I’m going to do this bad thing. And I’m going to hate myself. But you’ll be okay. And that’s—that has to be enough.”
She didn’t wake up. Didn’t respond.
I kissed her forehead and left.
FRIDAY MORNING: The Beginning
I dressed in professional clothes—not the red dress, that was for Saturday. Friday was about being invisible. Competent. Forgettable.
Black slacks, white blouse, comfortable flats, braids pulled back in neat bun. Fake resume and references Dominic had provided in my bag.
Bailey was already at work. I left her a note: Weekend event. See you Sunday. Love you.
The train to West Sussex took ninety minutes. I watched London fade into countryside, watched old money’s playground emerge.
Thornton Estate appeared like something from a period drama.
Sprawling manor. Centuries old. Stone and ivy and generational wealth. Gardens that probably required a dozen full-time gardeners. Gates with actual guards.
I showed ID to security. “Aspen Colby. Ada Reeves’s new assistant.”
They checked a list. Waved me through.
The drive up to the manor took three minutes. Three minutes of manicured perfection that probably cost more to maintain than most people’s salaries.
A woman waited at the entrance: Fifties, sharp suit, stressed expression, hands full of binders.
“Thank god,” she said before I could introduce myself. “Aspen?”
“Yes, Ms. Reeves, I’m—”
“Ada. Please. We don’t have time for formality. My regular assistant quit last week—wedding stress, she said, as if I’m not also experiencing wedding stress—and this wedding is in less than forty-eight hours, and the bride wants everything perfect, and the groom’s family is particular, and I need someone competent who can follow instructions and not have a breakdown. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Hired. Come on.”
She walked fast. I followed.
Tour of the estate happened at breakneck speed: Ceremony in south garden, reception in grand ballroom, rehearsal dinner tonight in conservatory, groom’s family in east wing, bride’s family in west wing, three hundred guests arriving tomorrow morning, everything had to be perfect or heads would roll.
“Memorize the floor plan,” Ada said, shoving a binder at me. “Memorize the timeline. Memorize the guest list. If anyone asks you anything, you know the answer. We are professionals. We do not panic. We execute flawlessly. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good. Now help me confirm the florals before the bride has another meltdown about peonies.”
I fell into assistant mode. Followed Ada. Took notes. Confirmed details. Acted competent and invisible.
All while memorizing: Exit locations. Security positions. Ceremony seating chart. Exactly where Marius would stand. Where I’d need to position myself to make my entrance.
This was reconnaissance disguised as employment.
And I was good at it.
By noon, I’d mapped the entire estate. By 2 PM, I’d confirmed the ceremony schedule. By 4 PM, I knew which security guards were ex-military (all of them) and which doors locked from inside.
At 5 PM, setting up for rehearsal dinner in the conservatory, I saw him.
Marius Khatri. In person. Talking with an elegant older woman in a sari—his mother, probably.
He was more devastating in person than in photos.
Tall. Controlled posture. Sharp features. Dark eyes that missed nothing. He moved with careful precision, like every gesture was measured.
And he looked profoundly lonely.
Even standing next to his mother, surrounded by family and staff and wedding preparations, he looked like a man going through motions. Performing. Trapped.
Our eyes met through the conservatory glass.
For one second, we just—looked at each other.
Then Ada called my name, and the moment broke.
I turned back to flower arrangements and seating charts.
But I felt him watching.
And tomorrow, I’d destroy his wedding.
For ten thousand dollars.
For my mother’s care.
For survival.
I was really doing this.
God help us both.
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