Chapter 1 — The Wedding Disaster

Emma

The Skyline Ballroom glittered with a kind of perfection that should have filled me with pride. Every detail had been coordinated with surgical precision: the soft pink rose petals scattered down the aisle, the towering floral centerpieces that practically screamed "money well spent," and the string quartet playing a delicate rendition of “Clair de Lune.” My masterpiece. Months of sleepless nights, endless vendor calls, and a spreadsheet that could rival NASA’s had culminated in this moment.

Yet beneath the surface, a crack was forming. It started as a quiet unease, a whisper of wrongness that I couldn’t quite place. My gaze flicked to the string quartet. Their bows swept gracefully, but there was an instability to the melody, like they were waiting for a cue that wasn’t coming.

As I stood there in my Vera Wang gown, one hand clutching my bouquet and the other trembling at my side, the voices of the guests blurred into a distant hum. The faint scent of lavender—Luke’s favorite, of course—rose from the arrangements, mingling with the cool tang of the ballroom’s air conditioning. The bouquet seemed heavier than it should have, the stems pressing into my damp palm.

Where was he?

The murmurs among the guests grew louder, a ripple of unease spreading through the crowd. I scanned the room, my eyes landing on my maid of honor, Tasha, seated in the front row. She gave me a look that could melt steel: part concern, part “I told you so.” My throat tightened, and a bead of sweat tickled its way down my spine, despite the ballroom’s perfectly calibrated climate.

“Just—give it a minute,” I whispered to the officiant, though my voice cracked halfway through. He nodded, his face a mask of professional neutrality, but the pity behind his eyes was unmistakable.

Minutes passed. Too many. The quartet faltered, their bows dragging awkwardly across the strings before they stopped altogether. The silence was deafening now, broken only by the rustle of expensive dresses and the occasional cough. My gaze darted to the double doors at the end of the aisle, willing them to burst open, for Luke to sweep in with that apologetic smile that always managed to disarm me.

But the doors remained shut.

“Emma…” Tasha’s voice was a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of my heart. She had risen from her seat and was making her way toward me, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. “He’s not coming.”

I stared at her, the words not registering. Not coming? Luke, the man who had insisted on a sixteen-piece orchestra for the cocktail hour, who had spent an entire Saturday debating the merits of gold versus rose gold flatware, was not coming?

The hollowness twisted into something sharper, more jagged. A laugh bubbled up in my throat, unbidden and hysterical. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, he’s just—he’s just late. Traffic or… or something.” My voice rose, teetering on the edge of a breakdown. “He wouldn’t do this.”

Even as I said it, I knew. The look in Tasha’s eyes, the way she avoided the crowd’s collective gaze, told me everything. Luke Denham, my fiancé of two years, the man who had promised me forever, had walked away. Not just from the wedding, but from me.

The room began to spin. My meticulously planned world—this pinnacle of perfection—was crumbling around me, and I was powerless to stop it. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat a cruel reminder of the silence where Luke’s footsteps should have been. My grip on the bouquet loosened, and it slipped from my fingers, the soft thud of roses hitting the floor barely registering.

I heard someone—maybe Tasha, maybe my mother—call my name, but the sound was muffled, like I was underwater. My legs moved of their own accord, carrying me toward the exit. I couldn’t stay here, not with all those eyes on me, not with the whispers and the pity and the judgment bearing down like a thousand-pound weight.

The glass doors leading to the rooftop terrace swung open as I pushed through them, the cool evening air slapping against my face. The city stretched out before me, its lights twinkling like a cruel mockery of my shattered dreams. The distant hum of traffic below mingled with the faint strains of the quartet, who had apparently decided to play something upbeat, as if to salvage the mood.

I gripped the railing, the metal cold and unyielding under my palms. My breath came in sharp, shallow gulps, each one laced with the acrid sting of humiliation.

How dare he? How dare he leave me here, in front of everyone we knew, to pick up the pieces of his cowardice?

Fury clawed its way up my throat, overtaking the humiliation and despair. My carefully curated life had just been reduced to rubble, and Luke Denham was going to pay for every single splinter.

Behind me, the doors creaked open again. Tasha stepped out, her cropped leather jacket incongruous against the sea of pastel bridesmaids’ dresses. She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, her arms crossed, watching me like I was a ticking time bomb.

“Say it,” I snapped, not turning around. “Whatever snarky comment you’re dying to make, just say it.”

“Snarky? Me?” Her voice was light, but I could hear the undercurrent of concern. “I was going to go with, ‘What a flaming sack of garbage that man turned out to be.’ But hey, if you’re looking for snark, I can work with that.”

I let out a bitter laugh, finally turning to face her. “A flaming sack of garbage would’ve been preferable. At least then I wouldn’t have spent six months planning the most Instagrammable wedding of the decade.”

Tasha walked over, leaning casually against the railing beside me. “You know this isn’t about you, right? Whatever he’s dealing with, it’s his mess. Not yours.”

Her words were meant to comfort, but they only stoked the fire simmering in my chest. “It is about me, Tash. He left me. At the altar. In front of three hundred people, half of whom I don’t even like.”

She shrugged. “Okay, fair point. But let’s be real—most of those people came for the open bar.”

I shot her a glare, but the corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. Trust Tasha to find humor in the apocalypse.

“What do I do now?” I asked, my voice quieter, almost fragile.

Tasha tilted her head, considering me. “Well, you could cry. Scream. Smash a few champagne glasses. All valid options.”

I shook my head. “I can’t. Not here. Not with everyone watching.”

“Then let’s get out of here.” She straightened, holding out a hand. “Come on. Your apartment’s stocked with overpriced wine, right? We’ll drink, binge-watch trashy reality TV, and maybe set fire to your wedding planner. Therapeutic and symbolic.”

I hesitated, glancing back at the ballroom. Through the glass walls, I could see the guests still milling about, their faces a sea of awkward expressions and forced sympathy. The thought of walking back in there, of facing their questions and condolences, made my stomach churn.

“Okay,” I said, taking her hand. “But we’re not burning the planner. It’s leather-bound.”

Tasha rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Fine. But I’m taking that bottle of Dom Perignon as compensation for emotional labor.”

As we made our way out of the ballroom, I caught sight of an item left on the podium near the aisle: the engagement ring box. Deep navy blue with gold trim, its hinges slightly worn. It sat there like a relic of a life that no longer existed.

For a moment, I thought about picking it up, about reclaiming some small piece of what I’d lost. But my hand stayed at my side.

Not yet.