6 Years Ago, My Sister Stole My Millionaire Fiancé — The Man I Was About To Marry. Now, …
Six years ago, my sister stole my millionaire fiancé, the man I was about to marry. Now, at our mother’s funeral, she walked in with him, flashing her diamond ring, and said, “Poor you, still alone. I got the man, the money, and the mansion.”
I smiled, turned to her, and said, “Have you met my husband yet?” When I called him over, her face went pale. Because actually, my husband was—
My name is Rebecca Wilson. And at thirty-eight years old, I found myself standing at my mother’s funeral, dreading the moment my sister, Stephanie, would arrive. Six years had passed since she stole Nathan—my millionaire fiancé, the man I was planning to spend my life with. I hadn’t seen either of them since. When they finally walked in, Stephanie flashing her diamond ring with that smug smile, I felt a calm I never expected. She had no idea who was waiting to meet her.
My mother, Eleanor, was always the glue that held our family together. Growing up in a modest suburban home outside Boston, she taught me strength and dignity. Even after I moved into my own apartment downtown and built my career as a marketing executive, I called her almost every day. She was my confidant, my adviser, and my biggest cheerleader. When she was diagnosed with stage-4 pancreatic cancer eight months ago, my world wobbled on its axis. Despite aggressive treatments, time was short. She faced it with grace, more worried about everyone else than herself. In those final weeks, back in the house where she’d raised us, she slipped away holding my hand and made me promise to find peace.
Six years earlier, on paper, my life had been perfect: career, friends, a nice apartment. Inside, something ached. Sixty-hour weeks blurred together; dates fizzled. Then I met Nathan Reynolds at a charity gala through my college friend Allison. Nathan was charismatic, with perfect teeth and the kind of confidence that fills a room. A self-made tech millionaire at thirty-six, he was the kind of success story magazines love.
We clicked. We loved art, travel, ambition. After our first date overlooking the harbor, I called my mother to say I’d met someone special. Our romance fast-tracked itself—weekends on the Vineyard, symphony tickets, candlelit dinners. Eighteen months in, he proposed during a private dinner on a yacht. I said yes to the five-carat diamond and to the life I thought it represented. My parents were thrilled. My mother, in particular, dreamed big. “Don’t hold back,” she told me. “You deserve beautiful things.”
Stephanie is two years younger than me. We were close as kids but always competing—grades, friends, attention. If I had something, she wanted it; if I did something, she had to do it bigger. Still, I chose her as my maid of honor. Mother said it would bring us closer; I wanted to believe we’d grown up.
When I introduced Stephanie to Nathan at a family dinner, she complimented him excessively and touched his arm when she laughed. I dismissed it as her usual charm. At our engagement party, she helped string lights across our parents’ backyard and arrange flowers with my mother. Across the room, I kept catching her watching Nathan. When our eyes met, she’d raise her glass and smile.
Later that night, as guests drifted out, my mother pulled me into the kitchen. “Rebecca, darling, I noticed Stephanie seems quite taken with Nathan,” she said carefully.
“She’s just being friendly, Mom,” I replied, rinsing champagne flutes. “Besides, she’s dating that pharmaceutical rep, Brian.”
Mother nodded, unconvinced. “Just be careful, honey. You know how your sister can get when you have something she admires.”
“We’re adults now,” I said, kissing her cheek. “She’s happy for me.” I wanted that to be true. I needed it to be true.
Three months before the wedding, Nathan started changing. He worked later, answered texts at odd hours. Friday date nights became “emergency meetings.” When we were together, he was distracted, always glancing at his phone. Worse, he began poking at the things he’d once loved about me—my laugh, my favorite blue dress, my habit of reading in bed.
Meanwhile, Stephanie called more often with “maid of honor” questions. She offered to attend vendor meetings when I couldn’t get away from work. “I just want everything to be perfect for my big sister,” she’d say.
One Thursday, we had dinner at a sleek Italian spot. Nathan barely looked at me. After his phone buzzed for the fifth time, I snapped a brittle smile. “Is something more important happening elsewhere?”
“Sorry,” he murmured, face flushed with charm. “You know how it is before a product launch.”
Later that week, I smelled an unfamiliar perfume on his collar—heavy, floral. He claimed an investor, “Rebecca Mills,” had hugged him goodbye. The explanation felt rehearsed. I wanted to believe it.
I told Allison over coffee, and she shrugged. “Everyone fights before the wedding. Parker and I almost called ours off.”
Maybe, I thought. Maybe.
Still, the knot in my stomach tightened. I tried harder—spa days, new lingerie, favorite recipes—but Nathan drifted farther. He skipped our cake tasting, suggesting Stephanie go in his place. “She knows my preferences anyway,” he said. The words turned my stomach. How did my sister know my fiancé’s cake preferences better than I did?
Full Story:👉 https://usstardaily24h.com/tsrhxc
