Chapter 1 — The Cathedral of St. Marcellus

Charlotte "Charlie" Hayes

The air inside the Cathedral of St. Marcellus was thick, perfumed with incense and the faint metallic tang of candle wax. The towering spires stretched into the heavens, their grandeur pressing down on me like an unbearable weight rather than lifting me toward divinity. Stained-glass windows fractured the late afternoon light into shards of color that scattered across the gleaming marble floor, their beauty cruel in its indifference to the scene unfolding below. My heels clicked against the stone as I stood at the altar, my nerves stretched so taut they might snap.

I should have felt beautiful. The custom gown—a masterpiece of ivory silk, delicate lace, and pearl beading—clung to me perfectly, every detail painstakingly designed to impress. The pearls shimmered in the cathedral’s dim light, tiny, perfect testaments to a life cultivated for control and precision. My hair, styled into an impeccable chignon earlier that morning, hadn’t moved an inch. My makeup was flawless, my lips painted a soft rose meant to whisper elegance.

But even perfection couldn’t protect me from this.

The murmurs started small. A ripple of sound that grew louder with each passing second, like the swell of a tide creeping toward shore. A faint cough, a rustle of fabric, a stifled laugh. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out the organ music that faltered, then stopped entirely. The officiant shifted beside me, his knuckles white against the carved podium.

I focused on the altar’s intricate carvings, their details blurring in my vision. Anywhere but the crowd. Anywhere but the faces staring at me, their expressions shifting from polite confusion to pity.

Daniel wasn’t here.

The realization didn’t come all at once. It arrived in fragments, each one sharper than the last. He wasn’t just late. He wasn’t coming. A cold weight settled in my chest, pressing into my lungs. My breathing grew shallow, uneven. The bouquet in my hands trembled, the thorny stems biting into my palms. The scent of roses rose like a wave, cloying and suffocating.

"Miss Hayes," the officiant said softly, his voice hesitant, as if afraid his words might shatter me entirely.

Somewhere in the pews, a woman leaned toward her companion, her manicured hand raised to her mouth. "What a shame," she whispered, loudly enough for me to hear. A faint snicker followed, though whether it was real or imagined I couldn’t tell. My head buzzed with static, the sound rising to drown out the whispers, the pitying glances, the cruel amusement in their smirks.

I replayed the last few weeks in a desperate attempt to make sense of it. There had been no warning signs, no arguments, no coldness in Daniel’s touch. He had kissed me goodbye just last night, promising he couldn’t wait for forever to start. Forever. The word now tasted bitter, like ash on my tongue.

"Charlotte," a voice broke through the fog. Emily.

Her red curls caught the fractured light as she stepped out of the front row, her freckled face pale but determined. She reached for me, her hand warm and steady against my arm.

"Charlie," she whispered, her tone soft and familiar, grounding me in a way only she could. But then, quieter, more careful: "Charlotte." Like even she was unsure how to handle the raw wound I’d become.

I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look at anyone. My gaze darted to the towering double doors at the back of the cathedral, still closed, still mocking me with their unyielding silence.

He wasn’t coming.

The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. My knees wobbled, and for one horrifying moment, I thought I might collapse right there at the altar, in front of hundreds of eyes. Emily’s grip tightened, steadying me.

"We need to leave," she murmured, her voice low enough that only I could hear. "You don’t have to do this. Let’s just go, Charlie."

The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of judgment and glee. A woman in the second row tilted her head, her diamonds catching the light as she whispered to her companion, her painted lips curling into a smirk. I could feel the weight of their stares, could hear the stories they would tell over champagne tonight. Poor Charlotte Hayes. Abandoned at the altar.

My fingers curled into fists, crushing the bouquet and the delicate silk of my gown’s skirt. I wanted to scream, to cry, to tear off the suffocating perfection of this dress and flee. But I couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

"Miss Hayes?" the officiant tried again, his voice trembling.

I turned to Emily, her green eyes blurred by the tears I refused to let fall. "Get me out of here," I choked out, my voice barely audible.

Without hesitation, she slipped her arm through mine and guided me down the aisle. The whispers crashed over me like waves, relentless and suffocating. I kept my chin high, every ounce of my remaining dignity poured into each deliberate step. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

The great cathedral doors swung open, and the crisp autumn air hit my face like a slap. It smelled of fallen leaves and rain-soaked pavement, fresh and grounding in its simplicity. The city stretched out before me, its jagged skyline a dark silhouette against the bruised-purple sky.

Emily led me down the stone steps, her grip firm but gentle. I didn’t realize I was shaking until we reached the bottom, and she pulled me into a tight embrace.

"I’m so sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her own emotions.

I stood stiffly in her arms, my body numb and unyielding. The gown felt heavier than ever, its silk suffocating, its pristine beauty mocking me. My gaze drifted to the horizon, and flashes of memory cut through the fog—Daniel’s laugh, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face, the way his voice softened when he said my name.

Humiliation. Anger. Heartbreak.

And beneath it all, something hotter, sharper. Fury.

Daniel Hayes had walked me to the edge of the world, promised me forever, and then shoved me off without warning. He had stripped me bare in front of the people I had worked so hard to impress, turned me into a cautionary tale for women who dared to believe in happily ever after.

But I wouldn’t let him make me a victim. I refused.

Emily pulled back, her eyes scanning my face. "What do you need?" she asked, her voice trembling but steady.

What did I need? The question echoed in the