Chapter 2 — The Aftermath
Claire
The silence in my apartment was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic tick of the wall clock. I sat cross-legged on the floor, still cocooned in my wedding dress. Well, *what would have been* my wedding dress. The intricate lace sleeves chafed against my arms, and the once-pristine skirt pooled around me in crumpled disarray. The veil, long discarded, lay somewhere across the room like a forgotten relic. I knew I should get up—take it off, pour myself a glass of wine, maybe eat something—but I couldn’t move. It felt as though the weight of the day had anchored me to the floor, a prisoner of my own grief.
My gaze flickered to the bookshelf in the corner, landing on a weathered leather-bound scrapbook peeking out from behind a stack of old magazines. It had been years since I’d opened it, years since I’d let myself indulge in the dreams it held. I used to imagine myself traveling the world, camera in hand, capturing moments of magic and wonder. Now, it felt like the ghost of a girl I could barely remember—a girl who had dared to dream of a life bigger than this.
The buzz of my phone shattered the quiet, jerking me from my thoughts. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. Emily had been texting me nonstop since the chapel fiasco, her concern as relentless as it was exhausting.
I forced myself to crawl to the couch and grabbed my phone from the coffee table. Sure enough, a string of messages from my older sister filled the screen:
*EMILY: Are you okay?*
*EMILY: Call me.*
*EMILY: Seriously, Claire, you’re worrying me.*
I sighed and typed back a quick reply:
*CLAIRE: I’m fine. Just tired. Will call tomorrow.*
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. I *was* tired—bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired. But I wasn’t fine. Not even close.
I tossed the phone back onto the couch and leaned my head against the cushions, closing my eyes. But the memories of the day clawed at me, refusing to let me rest. The whispers from the guests at the chapel. The pitying looks from my bridesmaids. The way my father had cleared his throat awkwardly, unable to meet my eyes as I stood there, frozen in my white dress.
And then, the final blow: the Instagram post.
I opened my eyes and grabbed my phone again, unable to resist the masochistic urge to look. There it was, staring back at me with the same cruel mockery as before: Leo, sitting at a café in Paris, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world. Beside him, leaning into his shoulder with a dazzling smile, was Sophia Delgado. Her platinum-blonde hair gleamed in the sunlight, her flawless makeup perfectly curated for the camera. The caption read: *“Fresh starts and bright futures! 💕✨”*
My stomach twisted into a tight knot, and a bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. *Fresh starts and bright futures.* How poetic. As if abandoning me at the altar wasn’t enough, Leo had to flaunt his new life for the world to see. It wasn’t just betrayal—it was calculated, public humiliation.
My hands tightened around my phone, and I felt a sharp sting in my chest, like the wound was too raw to bear. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dark TV screen across the room—my mascara smudged, my hair half-fallen from its once-perfect chignon. I looked like a woman left behind, discarded.
But there was more. There was always more.
I opened the bank app, half-praying that this part of the nightmare wasn’t real. But of course, it was.
Our joint savings account—the one Leo and I had spent years building for a down payment on a house, a honeymoon, a life—was empty. Every last dollar, gone.
My hands trembled as I stared at the screen, the numbers mocking me: $0.00. A cold sweat broke out along my spine, and my breath hitched in my throat. The weight of it all crashed over me like a tidal wave, pulling me under. My chest tightened, and I let out a strangled, guttural sound. How could I have been so blind? I replayed every moment in my mind, searching for clues I might have missed. The late-night phone calls he brushed off. The vague excuses about work trips. The way he’d always been so charming, so convincing.
My phone slipped from my hand, landing on the coffee table with a dull thud. The tears came fast and hot, blurring my vision as I buried my face in my hands. How could I have trusted him? How could I have given him everything, only to be left with nothing?
A sharp knock on the door jolted me from my spiral. I wiped at my face quickly, even though I knew who it would be.
“Claire?” Emily’s voice came through the door, soft but insistent. “I know you’re in there. Let me in.”
I hesitated, shame prickling at my skin. I didn’t want her—or anyone—to see me like this. But another knock followed, more determined this time, and I sighed, dragging myself to the door.
Emily stepped inside, her arms full of grocery bags. She took one look at me—still in my wedding dress, my face streaked with tears—and her expression softened.
“Oh, honey,” she said, setting the bags down and pulling me into a hug.
I stiffened at first, but then the dam broke. The tears poured out, messy and unrestrained, and Emily just held me, letting me sob against her shoulder.
When I finally pulled away, she guided me to the couch and handed me a tissue. “I brought ice cream, wine, and those fancy chocolates you like. You know, the ones with the sea salt.”
A watery laugh escaped me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did,” she said firmly. “You’re my sister, and you just had the worst day of your life. Ice cream and wine won’t fix it, but they’ll help.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, and I heard the clinking of glasses and the hum of the freezer door. When she returned, she handed me a glass of red and sat beside me, opening a pint of ice cream.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently, her voice free of judgment.
I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was rehash the humiliation.
“Okay,” she said, taking a bite of ice cream. “Then how about we talk about how to ruin Leo’s life?”
I blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “We could post an embarrassing story about him online. Or send glitter bombs to his apartment. Or—ooh!—we could report his Instagram account for spam.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “Emily, those are terrible ideas.”
She grinned. “Maybe. But they made you laugh, didn’t they?”
I nodded, taking a sip of wine. The warmth of it spread through me, dulling the edges of my despair.
Emily grew serious, her playful tone softening. “Listen, Claire. I know this feels like the end of the world right now. And honestly, Leo’s a scumbag of epic proportions. But you’re going to get through this. You’re stronger than you think.”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But the weight of my failure still pressed down on me, heavy and unrelenting.
After Emily left, I sat alone in the quiet apartment, the half-empty wine glass resting on the coffee table. My phone buzzed again, but this time I ignored it. Instead, my gaze drifted to the bookshelf, to the scrapbook that had caught my eye earlier. I thought about reaching for it, about opening its pages, but the thought felt too daunting, too raw. Instead, I grabbed my laptop and opened a blank document.
The words came slowly at first, halting and uncertain, but then they spilled out in a furious, unfiltered rush:
*Dear Leo,*
*Congratulations on being the world’s biggest coward. I hope you enjoy Paris with your new girlfriend while I’m stuck here cleaning up the mess you left behind. But don’t worry—I’m not going to let you get away with this. You might think you’ve won, but you haven’t. This isn’t over.*
I stared at the screen, my chest heaving. The anger felt good—productive, even. For the first time all day, I felt a flicker of something I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was something close to defiance. My gaze flicked back to the corner of the bookshelf, to the scrapbook waiting there, and I felt the faintest spark of resolve.
I didn’t know what I was going to do yet, but I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to let Leo Carter walk away unscathed.
Not a chance.
