Chapter 1 — The Wedding Day Disaster

The Bride

The air inside The Glasshouse Rooftop was heavy with expectation, perfumed by fresh-cut peonies and the crisp, sterile bite of chilled champagne. Two hundred pairs of eyes bored into me, each gaze a kaleidoscope of curiosity, pity, and confusion. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out the soft hum of the jazz quartet stationed in the corner. The music faltered momentarily—an awkward pause as if the musicians, too, sensed the unraveling. Somewhere in the distance, the officiant cleared his throat, his words a low murmur as he leaned toward my mother. I didn’t need to hear him to know what he was saying.

He’s not coming.

I tightened my grip on the bouquet, the ivory petals bruising under the pressure of my fingers. The intricate lace of my wedding gown, once a symbol of perfection, now felt like a net tightening around me, scratching at my skin as if mocking my every breath. My hazel eyes scanned the crowd, taking in the sea of familiar faces: colleagues from the event-planning world, my mother’s book club friends, and Vivienne—my best friend—standing just a few steps behind me. Her auburn hair was pulled into a messy bun, a defiant nod to her refusal to conform to the perfection the rest of us tried so desperately to maintain.

But the one face that should have been there—across from me, with a disarming smile meant to settle my nerves—was nowhere to be found.

“Are you sure there’s no traffic?” my mother hissed at the wedding coordinator, her voice sharp enough to draw blood.

“There’s no traffic, Mrs. Carter,” the coordinator replied in a tone so measured it bordered on robotic, the kind reserved for bridezillas and clients on the verge of meltdowns.

A ripple of whispers started in the far corner, spreading like a contagion through the crowd.

“Do you think he got cold feet?”

“Poor thing. She’s always been so... intense. Maybe it scared him off.”

“His family’s never been thrilled about her. I heard his father—”

The words sliced through me, each snippet cutting deeper than the last. My chest tightened as if someone had wound an iron band around it. I wanted to scream at them, to tell them to shut up, to stop picking apart my life like vultures circling a carcass. But I stood frozen, my polished exterior held together by sheer force of will.

Then, the wedding coordinator began walking toward me, her movements hesitant, as if she were approaching a ticking bomb. In her trembling hands was a small, crisp envelope. Her eyes darted nervously to my face, silently begging me not to erupt.

“Miss Carter,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the din of murmurs.

My name. Not Mrs. Heirling. Not the name I’d practiced signing on thank-you notes and hypothetical holiday cards. Just Miss Carter.

The envelope felt heavier than it should have, its weight disproportionate to its size. I slipped my finger under the seal, the tearing sound unnervingly loud against the silence that had descended around me. Inside was a simple card, the words penned in his familiar, deliberate handwriting.

*I’m sorry. This is for the best.*

For the best. A coward’s excuse wrapped in vague sentimentality. My hands trembled as I crumpled the note into a tight ball, the edges digging into my palms. My knees wavered for a moment, the weight of humiliation pressing down on me, but I locked them in place. My vision blurred, not with tears—I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction—but with a hot, focused anger that burned away the edges of my composure.

“Darling...” My mother’s voice was soft now, hesitant, as though she were addressing a wounded animal. “Let’s... let’s step outside for a moment.”

“No,” I said, my tone razor-sharp. “I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine. Not even close. But I’d be damned if I let them see me break.

Vivienne stepped closer, her hand brushing against my elbow. “Evie,” she murmured, her voice low and steady, meant only for me. “This isn’t the place to figure this out. Let’s step out.”

Her touch anchored me, pulling me from the swirling chaos of my thoughts. I nodded stiffly, my movements mechanical as I handed her the bouquet. My Event Planning Notebook sat neatly in its designated bag on a nearby chair, and without thinking, I grabbed it, clutching it to my chest like armor.

The walk down the aisle—once envisioned as a triumphant march toward my future—was now a slow, shameful retreat. My heels clicked against the polished floor with a cadence that felt mocking. The crowd parted as I approached, their expressions a mixture of sympathy and scandal.

“She’s too much to handle—what man would stay?”

“She’ll bounce back. She’s always so... controlled.”

The whispers were quieter now but no less cutting. I straightened my spine, forcing myself to walk tall even as my insides crumbled.

As I neared the mirrored doors framing the exit, I caught a glimpse of myself—my reflection distorted by the glass panels. The once-flawless bride now looked like a stranger, her angular features sharpened by humiliation, her gown a cruel costume. The sight jolted me, a reminder of the image I had worked so tirelessly to maintain.

Once outside, the cool evening air hit me like a slap. The city skyline stretched before me, glittering and serene, a cruel contrast to the chaos inside me.

“I can’t believe this,” my mother hissed, her voice rising with each syllable. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? Do you know what this will do to our reputation?”

“Not now, Mom,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. The last thing I needed was a lecture about appearances.

Vivienne appeared at my side, her hand slipping into mine. “Let’s go,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “And for the record, there’s no way you’re letting this champagne go to waste.”

I let her lead me away from The Glasshouse, away from the stares and whispers, away from the polished facade of what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

As we walked down the cobblestone streets, the city’s cold air carrying the faint tang of rain, my thoughts churned, venomous and relentless. How could he do this to me? How could he leave me standing there, exposed and humiliated, without so much as a phone call or an explanation?

And then, beneath the anger, another thought slithered in, darker and more insidious.

What did I do wrong?

I shoved it aside, burying the doubt beneath layers of fury and defiance. This wasn’t my fault. This was on him. And if he thought he could disappear without consequences, he was sorely mistaken.

I tightened my grip on my notebook, its smooth leather cover cool against my palm. My mind, always alive with plans and contingencies, began to churn with the beginnings of something new.

He didn’t just ruin my wedding—he ruined my life. I’ll make sure he knows what that feels like.

Vivienne squeezed my hand as we turned a corner. “We’ll figure this out,” she said, her voice a steady balm against the chaos in my head.

I glanced at her, my sharp, angular features reflected in her warm, empathetic gaze. For a fleeting moment, my facade cracked, and I allowed myself to feel the weight of her support.

But only for a moment.

Because the truth was, I didn’t want to figure this out. I didn’t want closure or understanding or any of the other platitudes people offered in times of heartbreak.

I wanted revenge.