Chapter 2 — Aftermath

The Bride

The first thing you notice when you’ve been crying for three days straight is how silence becomes deafening. It presses against your ears, amplifying the sound of your own breathing, the occasional creak of the floorboards, and the maddening tick of the clock on the wall. My apartment, usually an oasis of carefully maintained order, felt suffocating. The taupe walls I once found soothing now mocked me, their neutrality a cruel counterpoint to the chaos unraveling inside me.

I sat curled on the couch, still in the silk robe I’d slipped into the night of the wedding—or whatever that disaster was supposed to be. A half-empty bottle of red wine sat on the coffee table, flanked by my Event Planning Notebook. Its leather-bound cover, pristine as always, stared back at me like an old friend who had seen too much. I’d opened it once since that day, scribbling fragmented thoughts: *Why? How dare he?* and *Payback.* The handwriting was jagged, rushed—a far cry from my usual precision. My hand hovered over it now, itching to open it again, as if the act of writing could somehow impose order on the mess of my life.

The intercom buzzed.

I froze, my breath catching. For a moment, I considered ignoring it. I wasn’t ready to face anyone, not in this state—raw, unpolished, wrecked. The idea of someone seeing me like this, stripped of my armor, made my chest tighten. But then the buzz came again, insistent, followed by three sharp knocks on the door.

“Evie, open up! It’s Vivienne, and I brought Pinot Noir and something called ‘emotional support cookies.’”

I groaned, dragging myself off the couch. When I opened the door, Vivienne stood there, a walking contradiction of chaos and comfort. Her auburn hair was piled into a messy bun that seemed to have a life of its own, and her oversized cardigan draped haphazardly over a floral dress. In one hand, she held a brown paper bag; in the other, a bottle of wine.

“Jesus, you look like a sad raccoon,” she said, breezing past me into the apartment.

“Thanks,” I muttered, closing the door behind her.

Vivienne dumped the bag onto the coffee table and flopped onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her like she owned the place. “Alright, intervention time. Have you consumed anything in the last twenty-four hours that didn’t come from a bottle?”

I folded my arms. “Why are you here?”

“Because you’re my best friend, and I know you. You’re probably spiraling, Googling things like, ‘how to hex a man’s life’ or ‘best ways to set fire to a yacht without getting caught.’”

I blinked at her. “...I wasn’t Googling.”

“But you *thought* about it,” she said, smirking.

I sighed, collapsing onto the couch beside her. Vivienne handed me a cookie—oatmeal chocolate chip, still warm—and I took it without protest. The sweetness melted on my tongue, a brief reprieve from the bitterness lodged in my chest.

“You know,” she said, her voice softening, “it’s okay to be pissed. Hell, it’s okay to cry. You just got humiliated in front of two hundred people, Evie. You’re allowed to fall apart.”

“I don’t want to cry anymore, Viv,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “I want to make him regret *everything.*”

She raised an eyebrow, leaning back. “Well, that’s...specific. And slightly terrifying. What’s the plan? Death by PowerPoint? Death by Instagram exposé?”

A reluctant laugh escaped me. “No. Not yet, anyway.”

Vivienne’s humor faded slightly, replaced by something softer. “Revenge is messy, Evie. Are you sure it’s going to make you feel better?”

I didn’t respond immediately, my gaze drifting to the notebook on the table. Its smooth cover gleamed faintly under the lamplight, a quiet reminder of the order I used to pride myself on. My fingers brushed against it, almost unconsciously, as if touching it could anchor me. “It’s not revenge,” I said finally, though the words felt flimsy even as I spoke them. “It’s...justice.”

She snorted. “Call it whatever you want, babe. Just promise me you won’t go full supervillain. No monologues, no evil lairs.”

“No promises,” I said, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

Vivienne studied me for a long moment before standing abruptly. “Alright, enough brooding. You’re pale enough to haunt this apartment. Put on some leggings, and let’s go.”

“Go where?” I asked, frowning.

“Cobblestone Alley. You need air, Evie. And I’m not above dragging you out of here if I have to.”

I hesitated, my hand tightening around the notebook. The thought of stepping outside, of confronting the world—even a small, hidden corner of it—made my stomach churn. But Vivienne’s expression was resolute, her patience clearly wearing thin.

“Fine,” I muttered, pushing myself off the couch. “But if anyone stares at me, I’m coming straight back.”

Minutes later, I found myself bundled in a sweatshirt and leggings, my hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail. Vivienne, victorious, practically skipped ahead as we stepped into the crisp night air. The city buzzed faintly in the background—distant traffic, the occasional bark of a dog. The air smelled of rain and pavement, sharp and clean, and I inhaled deeply despite myself.

Cobblestone Alley was quiet when we arrived, its walls awash in vibrant graffiti. The streetlights flickered softly, casting uneven shadows over the uneven stones. A group of musicians played in the corner, their melodies weaving a haunting, beautiful thread through the night.

Vivienne walked ahead, spinning slightly as she took in the colors and sounds. “This place always makes me feel better,” she said. “It’s like...proof that something beautiful can come out of chaos.”

I trailed behind her, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. My eyes caught on a mural near the center of the alley—a phoenix rising from a swirl of ash and flame. Its wings stretched wide, vivid and defiant against the shadows. Something about it tugged at me, a faint flicker of recognition stirring in my chest.

“Or proof that people will paint over anything if you leave it alone long enough,” I said dryly.

Vivienne rolled her eyes. “God, you’re a joy right now.”

We stopped at a bench, and Vivienne handed me another cookie, her version of a peace offering. I accepted it without a word, the warmth and sweetness grounding me as I stared at the mural. The phoenix seemed to glow under the dim light, its wings a challenge to the darkness surrounding it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Vivienne asked gently.

“No.”

“Okay.” She paused. “Do you want to scream about it?”

I glanced at her, startled into a laugh. “Not here. I’d probably scare the musicians.”

“Fair,” she said, grinning. “But seriously, Evie. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. You don’t have to be perfect all the time.”

Her words hit harder than I expected, the truth of them slicing through the numbness I’d wrapped around myself. I glanced down at the cobblestones, tracing the uneven grooves with the tip of my shoe.

“I just...can’t believe he did this,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “I gave him everything, Viv. I trusted him.”

“And he’s an idiot for throwing it away,” she said fiercely. “But you? You’re not going to let him win.”

My gaze drifted back to the phoenix, its wings vivid and unbroken. Something hard and determined began to unfurl inside me, quiet but unrelenting. She was right. I wasn’t going to let him win.

“I’m not going to sit here and cry forever,” I said, the words tasting like resolve. “If he thinks he can humiliate me and walk away unscathed, he’s got another thing coming.”

Vivienne tilted her head, her smile cautious. “Revenge, huh? Well, just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That when you burn his metaphorical house down, you don’t set yourself on fire in the process.”

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I pulled the Event Planning Notebook from my bag, flipping open to a blank page. My pen moved almost instinctively, scrawling two words in bold, deliberate strokes: *Step 1.*

As we walked back to my apartment, the faint strains of music followed us, weaving into the night. For the first time since the wedding that wasn’t, I felt something other than heartbreak.

I felt purpose.