Chapter 1 — Text, Tears, and Tiaras

Emma

The first text came through just as my makeup artist was perfecting the final flick of my eyeliner. The buzz of my phone against the marble counter of the bridal suite was a faint vibration beneath the hum of preparations. My stomach fluttered with a mix of nerves and excitement. Marissa had probably snagged the last mini quiche from the appetizer tray and was texting me to gloat.

But the screen didn’t show Marissa’s name.

It was Ryan.

I can’t go through with it. I’m sorry.

For a moment, my mind slammed on the brakes. The words didn’t compute. My brain, ever the meticulous planner, immediately scrambled for explanations. Maybe he had sent the text to the wrong person. Maybe it was some kind of cruel pre-wedding prank. Maybe—maybe autocorrect had mangled whatever he actually meant to say.

“Don’t move,” the makeup artist warned, her spearmint gum scenting the air as she leaned in closer.

“Sure,” I murmured, my voice distant, my eyes glued to the screen as though staring could force the words to rearrange themselves into something logical, something safe.

Another buzz.

It’s not you. It’s me.

The icy hand of realization gripped my chest. My breath hitched, and my pulse pounded in my ears. The ornate gilded mirror in front of me warped and shimmered, reflecting the image of a woman who had been a bride just moments ago. Now, she was something crumbling, her foundation cracking beneath the weight of two texts.

My fingers tightened around the phone. The world outside my body—voices, footsteps, the clink of glassware—blurred into static.

“Uh, I need a minute,” I mumbled, shoving back from the vanity.

The makeup artist blinked, startled. “But—”

“Just one minute!” My voice was sharper than I intended, slicing through the air and leaving her frozen in place. I didn’t have the bandwidth to care. My world was collapsing, and I needed air—space—something.

Phone in hand, I darted into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door behind me and twisting the lock with trembling fingers. My lace train snagged on the doorknob, and I yanked it free, tearing the delicate fabric. A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat, unbidden. Fitting.

I stared at the screen, my fingers shaking as I typed: What are you talking about? Where are you?

The three dots of Ryan typing appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. My heart pounded, the seconds stretching unbearably long, my thoughts spiraling into a tangle of panic and disbelief. Finally, his reply came:

I can’t explain right now. I’ll call you later.

Later? Later?

My grip on the phone tightened, the edges biting into my palm. The pristine white tile of the bathroom blurred as tears stung my eyes. I blinked furiously, unwilling to let them fall, unwilling to let my mascara streak. Not yet.

And then, the final blow:

Tell everyone I’m sorry.

A strangled laugh broke free—a high-pitched, hysterical sound that echoed off the bathroom walls, mocking me. Tell everyone? He wanted *me* to clean up his mess, to be the one to stand in front of a room full of guests and admit that I’d been left at the altar via text?

My chest heaved as a wave of nausea surged through me. I gripped the edge of the sink with trembling hands, the cold marble biting into my palms. For all my careful planning, all my meticulous preparations, I’d never imagined this. I’d never imagined him.

A knock on the door jolted me from my spiral.

“Emma?” Tess’s voice was unmistakable, even muffled through the thick wood. “Open up, hon. I brought champagne and a tiara.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push down the chaos storming inside me. Of course, Tess would be the one to come knocking. Not Marissa, my ever-practical best friend, who was likely out front trying to calm the guests. Not my mother, surely hyperventilating into a decorative napkin somewhere. No, it was Tess Moreno—my bold, irreverent wedding planner—arriving like a whirlwind with bubbly and accessories.

“Go away,” I croaked, though some traitorous part of me, the part that hated being alone in moments like this, hoped she wouldn’t.

“Not a chance,” Tess replied breezily. “I’m not letting my bride spiral into a soap opera meltdown without me. Open the door, or I’m picking the lock with a bobby pin.”

A shaky exhale escaped me. My resistance crumbled, and with trembling hands, I unlocked the door.

Tess swept in, her electric-blue stilettos clicking against the tile like a drumroll. She carried a half-empty bottle of champagne in one hand and a sparkling tiara in the other, her pixie cut glinting under the harsh fluorescent light.

“Well,” she said, taking one look at my face, “you’re a mess. But you’re a *hot* mess, so there’s that.”

The laugh that burst out of me was strangled, more sob than snicker, but it broke through the suffocating weight in my chest.

“Here.” Tess shoved the tiara onto my head with zero ceremony. “Every queen needs her crown, even if her kingdom’s gone to hell.”

I blinked at her, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or throw the tiara across the room. “Ryan just called off the wedding,” I said, my voice trembling.

Tess’s expression sharpened, her dark eyes narrowing into slits. “That *coward*,” she hissed. “Did he have the decency to say it to your face, or did he pull this stunt via text?”

“Text,” I admitted, holding up my phone.

Tess snatched it from my hand, scanning the messages with a look of growing disgust. “What is this, a breakup or a bad episode of reality TV? ‘It’s not you, it’s me’? Is he *serious*?” She set the phone down with a decisive clink. “I’ve seen more creative excuses from toddlers.”

I sank onto the edge of the bathtub, my gown pooling around me like a deflated parachute. My fingers twisted at the lace hem, the tear from the doorknob a jagged reminder of everything unraveling.

“What am I supposed to do now?” I whispered, barely audible.

Tess crouched in front of me, her vibrant heels incongruous against the sterile bathroom floor. For once, the bravado in her expression softened, replaced by something warmer, steadier. “First, you’re going to breathe. Then, you’re going to march out there with your head held high and tell those guests that the party’s still on.”

I stared at her, bewildered. “What party?”

“The one we’re throwing in *your* honor,” she said firmly. “Because, honey, if there’s one thing worse than a runaway groom, it’s letting him steal your thunder. This is *your* day, Emma. And trust me, you’re going to own it.”

Her words were ridiculous, audacious, and so quintessentially Tess. But as they settled over me, a tiny ember of defiance flickered to life deep inside.

“You’re serious,” I said, though it came out more as a whisper than a question.

Tess grinned and extended a hand. “Dead serious. This isn’t the end of your story, Emma. It’s just a bad chapter. And the next one? Trust me—it’s going to be *killer*.”

I stared at her outstretched hand, my heart pounding. Against all odds, against the chaos and humiliation threatening to swallow me whole, I believed her.

I took her hand and let her pull me to my feet.

“Alright,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “Let’s do this.”

Tess’s grin widened, her bold lipstick as defiant as the fire in her eyes. “That’s my girl.”

As we pushed open the bathroom door, the muffled sounds of the bridal suite chaos rushed in. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the clink of glassware and the murmur of voices, a world waiting to see what I’d do next.

For the first time since Ryan’s texts had shattered my perfect day, I felt something other than despair. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just Tess’s infectious energy. Either way, it was enough.

This wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.