Chapter 1 — The Wedding Disaster

Amelia

The bouquet was perfect. White roses, hydrangeas, and a sprinkle of baby’s breath, tied together with a satin ribbon so pristine it could double as a metaphor for my life—or so I thought. I stood at the edge of the bridal suite, staring at myself in the floor-length mirror. The Vera Wang gown hugged every curve like it was designed for me, the silk fabric shimmering under the warm glow of the overhead chandelier. My hair, styled in loose waves, fell just enough to look effortless, though I had spent hours ensuring it was anything but. The gold monogrammed fountain pen my mother had given me sat on the vanity, a quiet reminder of everything I’d worked for. My life was polished, curated, and flawless.

Perfection. That’s what I had always aimed for. And today, I had nailed it. Every detail, right down to the designer shoes that pinched slightly but would look impeccable in photos. I was the picture of success, love, and sophistication. I was Amelia Grant, the woman who had it all.

Until I didn’t.

"Amelia," Sophia’s voice broke through my reverie, a high-pitched mix of excitement and nerves. She stood in the doorway, petite and radiant in her blush bridesmaid dress, her auburn curls bouncing as if they had a life of their own. "It’s time."

Time. The word settled in my stomach like a stone, heavy and unyielding. My fingers brushed over the satin ribbon of the bouquet, the edges cool and smooth beneath my fingertips. I forced a smile, clutching the flowers tighter than necessary, and nodded. "Let’s do this."

The ceremony space was a dream. Rows of guests dressed in elegant pastels and muted tones filled the pews, their murmurs blending with the soft strains of the string quartet. The air smelled of roses and fresh linen, a sensory detail I had insisted upon during the endless planning meetings. Everything was perfect, just as I had envisioned. A few discreetly raised phones caught the corners of my vision, guests already snapping photos and likely posting their captions: *#AmeliasBigDay.*

As I stepped into view, the room fell silent, all eyes turning toward me. I could feel the weight of their gazes, the admiration, the envy. I was the bride. The center of the universe. My heels clicked against the polished marble floor as I moved forward, my heart pounding in sync with the music’s crescendo.

And then, it happened.

I reached the altar, my eyes locking on Ethan’s. He looked devastatingly handsome in his tailored black tuxedo, his dark hair neatly combed, his gray eyes soft but distant. For a moment, I allowed myself to believe this was real, that the fairy tale was mine. Memories of our early days together flashed through my mind: Ethan surprising me with coffee at work, the quiet nights spent planning this very day, the way he’d once brushed a tear from my cheek and promised he’d never hurt me.

But as I took the final step, extending my hand toward him, his expression shifted. Panic flickered across his face—a crack in the façade. His hand twitched at his side, his weight shifting from one foot to the other, as though the polished marble floor beneath him had suddenly turned to quicksand.

Something was wrong.

"Amelia," he whispered, barely audible over the music. His voice trembled, and I felt my chest tighten. "I can’t do this."

The words hit me like a slap, sharp and stinging. My mind struggled to process them, clinging to disbelief like a life raft. I forced a laugh, low and shaky. "What are you talking about?"

Ethan’s eyes darted to the crowd, then back to me. His jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He took a step back, breaking the fragile connection between us. My hand hung in the air, empty and useless, as the murmurs began to ripple through the crowd. I could hear the faint buzz of phones being raised, the rustle of skirts as guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"Ethan, what are you doing?" My voice cracked, the polished confidence I had spent years perfecting slipping through my fingers.

"I’m sorry." His words were barely more than a whisper, but they carried the weight of a hundred bricks. "I just... I can’t."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

The world tilted on its axis. My vision blurred, the room spinning as gasps and whispers grew louder. Somewhere, a baby cried, the sound piercing through the fog in my mind. I felt Sophia’s hand on my arm, her voice urgent and panicked, but I couldn’t make out the words. All I could hear was the pounding of my own heart, a deafening drumbeat of humiliation and despair.

Faces in the crowd blurred together—some wide-eyed with shock, others whispering behind raised hands. One guest, a college friend of Ethan’s, had the audacity to film it all, his phone angled discreetly but unmistakably in my direction. The weight of their judgment pressed down on me, suffocating.

Someone—maybe Sophia, maybe Max—guided me back toward the bridal suite. The door clicked shut behind us, muffling the chaos outside. I sank onto the velvet settee, the bouquet still clutched in my hands like a lifeline. My chest heaved, each breath a struggle against the tears that threatened to spill over.

"Amelia, I—" Sophia started, her voice trembling.

"Don’t." The word came out harsher than I intended, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I stared down at the bouquet, the white roses now mocking in their purity. "Just... don’t."

The silence that followed was unbearable, broken only by the faint hum of my phone vibrating on the nearby vanity. With trembling hands, I reached for it, desperate for some kind of explanation, some shred of clarity.

There it was. A voicemail. From Ethan.

I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. Sophia and Max exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of concern and pity. Max, always the pragmatist, broke the tension. "Want me to throw that thing out the window? It’s not like it’s helping anyone right now."

It was such a Max thing to say that, for a split second, I almost smiled. But the gravity of the situation pulled me back under. With a deep breath, I hit play.

"Amelia," Ethan’s voice filled the room, tinny and distant through the speaker. "I’m so sorry. I know this isn’t fair to you, but I couldn’t go through with it. I thought I could, but... I just can’t. You deserve someone who can give you everything, and I’m not that person. I’ll always care about you, but this is for the best. Please forgive me. Please."

The message ended with a click, leaving a hollow silence in its wake. I stared at the phone, my mind a swirling storm of emotions. Anger. Hurt. Embarrassment. And beneath it all, a gnawing sense of inadequacy that I had buried for years.

Sophia knelt beside me, her green eyes wide and watery. "Amelia, we’re here for you. Whatever you need."

I met her gaze, the weight of her words pressing against the fragile dam holding back my tears. "I need to be alone."

She hesitated, glancing at Max, who stood awkwardly in the corner, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. After a moment, she nodded. "Okay. But we’re not going far."

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, I let the tears fall. They came in waves, hot and relentless, each one dragging me deeper into the abyss. The perfect bride, the perfect life, the perfect future—it had all shattered in an instant, leaving me with nothing but the jagged pieces.

I didn’t know how long I sat there, the bouquet limp in my lap, the tears drying on my cheeks. Eventually, the buzzing of my phone pulled me back to reality. I glanced at the screen, my stomach twisting at the sight of dozens of notifications. Texts, missed calls, social media alerts. My humiliation was already public, the viral spectacle of the jilted bride spreading like wildfire.

I opened Instagram. The first post I saw was a video, shaky and poorly framed, but unmistakably of me. The caption read: "When the groom says no at the altar... #WeddingFail #Cringe."

My heart sank as I watched myself on the screen, frozen in shock as Ethan walked away. The comments were even worse—some sympathetic, others cruel, all of them a reminder that my private pain was now public entertainment.

I threw the phone onto the vanity, the screen cracking as it hit the edge. The sound startled me, a sharp reminder of the world outside this room. My world.

No. I wouldn’t let this define me. I wouldn’t let him ruin me.

I stood, smoothing the wrinkles from my gown, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The woman who looked back at me wasn’t broken. She wasn’t defeated. She was angry.

And she had a plan.