Chapter 1 — Prologue: The Illusion of Perfection
Mia Harper
The silk of Mia Harper’s gown whispered against the polished marble floor as she paced the bridal suite, her reflection trailing her in the wall-length mirror. Outside the heavy door, the muffled hum of voices swelled and ebbed like a tide. Guests. Hundreds of them. Waiting. Watching. Judging.
She smoothed the fabric of her gown for the hundredth time, her fingers trembling as they brushed over the delicate embroidery. The dress had been custom-made, tailored to fit her like a second skin—a perfect gown for a perfect day. Or so she’d told herself.
"Deep breaths," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.
The room was immaculate, every detail meticulously curated. Cream-colored peonies, her favorite flower, sat in vases that glinted under the chandelier’s warm glow. A tray of untouched hors d'oeuvres rested on a table by the window, their arrangement as precise as a magazine spread. Even the air smelled intentional—a blend of lavender and vanilla, designed to soothe.
Yet Mia felt anything but soothed.
Her gaze flicked to her reflection again. Her chestnut waves framed her face, flawless and rigid, not a single strand out of place. Her hazel eyes, framed by expertly applied makeup, looked calm and composed. But the tightness in her jaw, the stiffness in her shoulders—those betrayed the truth.
The truth was, she’d been holding her breath for weeks. Months, even.
A sharp rap at the door jolted her.
"Mia? Five minutes," came the voice of her wedding planner, clipped and efficient, as always.
"Thank you," Mia replied, her voice steady despite the storm roiling inside her.
Five minutes. Five minutes until she walked down the aisle. Five minutes until she proved to everyone—her colleagues, her parents, herself—that she had it all.
She reached for the veil resting on a nearby chair, her fingers brushing over the delicate fabric. Her mother had cried when she’d first seen it, claiming it was the exact shade of white she’d worn on her wedding day. That was the thing about her mother—everything had to be a reflection of the past, of tradition, of expectations that Mia had spent her entire life trying to meet.
Her chest tightened. The veil slipped from her fingers, pooling on the chair like a discarded thought.
A knock sounded again, softer this time.
“Mia?”
Her mother’s voice, gentle but insistent. “The guests are asking about you. Is everything all right?”
Mia hesitated, her hand hovering near the chair, her throat tightening.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she called back, forcing her voice into something resembling composure.
A pause. Then the sound of her mother retreating.
For a moment, Mia imagined the scene waiting for her outside. The towering floral arrangements, the rows of golden chairs filled with impeccably dressed guests, the aisle that stretched like a runway toward Andrew Calloway, her fiancé.
Andrew.
Mia’s stomach twisted.
He was everything she was supposed to want. Tall, charming, successful. They were a power couple—the kind people wrote articles about. Their engagement photos had been featured in a glossy magazine spread with the headline “A Match Made in Ambition.”
She’d read it three times. Memorized it, even.
But now, staring at herself in the mirror, she felt something she couldn’t name—a crack in the polished surface of her carefully constructed life.
A flicker of memory surfaced, unbidden. Andrew, distracted at dinner last week, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s just the stress,” she’d told herself then. Her own doubts had been easier to ignore than confront.
Her phone buzzed on the vanity, shattering the silence.
Frowning, she set the veil aside and picked up the phone. A text? No, a voicemail. She hadn’t heard it ring.
A strange chill ran down her spine as she tapped to play the message.
“Mia.”
Andrew’s voice. Her stomach dropped.
“I—I can’t do this.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. She gripped the edge of the vanity to steady herself.
“I’m sorry,” the message continued, his voice cracking. “I thought I could, but... I just can’t. This isn’t right. I hope you’ll understand someday.”
The message ended with a click, leaving a deafening silence in its wake.
For a moment, Mia didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Her brain refused to process what she’d just heard.
Then, as if on autopilot, she replayed the message.
“I can’t do this.”
“This can’t be happening,” she whispered, her voice hollow.
The phone slipped from her hand, clattering onto the vanity.
Her chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The air in the room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in on her.
She turned toward the door, her heels clicking against the floor, her gown trailing behind her like a ghost. She needed answers. She needed to find Andrew and demand an explanation.
But her hand froze on the doorknob.
What would she even say? What could she say?
Her reflection caught her eye again, and for the first time, she saw the cracks in the façade. The carefully applied makeup couldn’t hide the redness creeping into her cheeks, the tremor in her lips.
She felt the weight of the expectations she’d carried for so long—the pressure to be perfect, to succeed, to prove that she was worthy. Worthy of love. Of respect. Of everything she’d worked so hard to achieve.
And now, it was all unraveling.
Her gaze fell to the vanity, where her Glassspire Keycard rested among the carefully arranged makeup brushes and jewelry. It gleamed under the chandelier’s light, a stark reminder of the pristine, controlled life she’d built.
A faint rustle drew her attention to the floor. A crumpled piece of paper lay at her feet, as if it had been there all along, unnoticed until now.
She crouched down, her hands trembling, and smoothed the paper out.
“I can’t do this.”
The same words as the voicemail.
Her legs gave out, and she sank onto the tufted stool in front of the vanity. The note fluttered from her fingers, landing on the floor like a discarded piece of her life.
The sound of faint music drifted through the walls—the wedding march, playing somewhere outside.
Mia stared at her reflection, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
And for the first time, she let the cracks show.
