Chapter 1 — The Perfect Bride

Emilia

The room was a masterpiece.

A gilded ballroom with ceilings that soared like a cathedral, their intricate plasterwork glittering under the light of a thousand crystals strung across a chandelier the size of a small car. The air was thick with the scent of roses and eucalyptus, the cascading floral arrangements acting as both decoration and a not-so-subtle reminder of the wealth and power on display. People whispered behind hands as they perched on gold Chiavari chairs, their eyes flickering toward the grand oak doors at the far end of the room. The Carter Family Estate had never looked better, which was saying something, considering its long history of hosting meticulously executed events.

And at the center of it all stood me, Emilia Carter, the perfect bride.

The dress was everything I’d dreamed of and more: ivory silk that hugged my torso before flaring into an unapologetically dramatic train. Tiny pearls hand-sewn into the fabric caught the light with every slight movement I made. My hair was swept back into a sleek chignon, not a strand out of place, and my makeup had been painstakingly applied to look both natural and flawless. The hazel of my eyes gleamed in the light, enhanced by just the right amount of shimmer on my lids. I was an image of calculated perfection, every detail honed to an edge sharper than glass.

I had worked too hard, given too much, to let anything ruin this day.

But something was wrong.

The whispers started softly, like the first drops of rain before a storm, and grew louder, rippling through the crowd. A ripple of unease moved through the room, like wind skimming the surface of a still lake. My grip tightened on the stems of the white peonies and calla lilies in my bouquet. The weight of the room—the stares, the murmurs, the collective breath holding—pressed down on me like an iron vice. My chest constricted, but I held my head high, my practiced smile still in place. Years of boardroom negotiations and high-stakes pitches had taught me one thing: never let them see you break.

“He’s late,” Naomi whispered, her voice low but sharp as she leaned in from her place beside me. Her fiery red bob brushed my shoulder, her brown eyes scanning the crowd with the precision of a sniper. Even in her role as maid of honor, Naomi managed to exude her signature brand of polished chaos, her emerald green dress a bold choice against the sea of muted pastels.

“Fashionably late,” I replied through my teeth, keeping my gaze fixed on the oak doors. “It’s Matt. He thrives on dramatics.”

But even as I said it, the words felt hollow. Matt Lane was many things—charming, infuriatingly handsome, frustratingly evasive—but he was not careless. Not with his image, at least. His all-American good looks and easy smile had made him the darling of the city’s social scene, the golden boy who could do no wrong. He wouldn’t jeopardize that. Not on this day.

Not with me.

Naomi didn’t respond, but I caught the flicker of doubt in her expression as she exchanged a glance with the wedding planner hovering near the side of the room. The planner, a harried-looking man with a clipboard and a headset, mouthed something I couldn’t hear, but his frantic gestures said enough.

The doors didn’t open.

The priest cleared his throat, a sound that echoed louder than I thought possible. “Perhaps we should—”

“No,” I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intended. A few heads in the crowd turned at my tone, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. “We wait.”

Naomi’s hand hovered near my arm, hesitant. “Em, we need to make a call here. This isn’t looking good.”

“He’ll be here,” I snapped, my tone clipped. “He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do this.”

But the words were more for myself than for her.

The whispers grew louder, a tidal wave of speculation threatening to drown me. My carefully constructed facade of poise and control began to crack, hairline fractures spreading under the weight of the moment. The bouquet in my hands felt like a dead weight, the flowers wilting in my mind’s eye. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

“Em,” Naomi said again, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “I think—”

“Don’t,” I hissed, glaring at her. “Don’t say it.”

But she didn’t need to. I could see it in her eyes, the pity lurking just beneath the surface. Naomi Reyes, my best friend, my confidante, my rock in the storm, looked at me like I was a wounded animal. And that was when I knew.

I knew.

The silence that followed was deafening. It swallowed the whispers, the murmurs, the shuffling of feet. Even the chandelier seemed to dim, its glittering light fading as reality crashed over me like a tidal wave. The oak doors remained closed, an impenetrable barrier between me and the truth.

He wasn’t coming.

The bouquet slipped from my hands, hitting the marble floor with a dull thud. The sound echoed in the cavernous room, louder than it had any right to be. My breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, as the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes bore down on me. My chest tightened, panic clawing its way up my throat. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

Naomi stepped closer, her hand brushing my arm. “Emilia,” she said softly, carefully. “We should go.”

I shook my head, my vision blurring as tears threatened to spill. “No,” I whispered, barely audible. “This isn’t happening. It’s a mistake. He’ll be here.”

The sound of a phone buzzing broke the silence, jarring and intrusive. Naomi fished her phone out of the tiny clutch she’d insisted on carrying, frowning as she read the screen. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and when she looked up at me, her expression was a mix of anger and heartbreak.

“Matt’s assistant just texted,” she said, her voice tight. “He’s gone. He… he left.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. My knees buckled slightly, and Naomi’s hand shot out to steady me. The room spun, the faces of the guests blending together into a kaleidoscope of judgment and pity. I wanted to scream, to cry, to run, but I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the enormity of what had just happened.

This wasn’t just a personal betrayal. It was a public humiliation of the highest order. The Carter family’s golden daughter, abandoned at the altar in front of the city’s elite. The story would spread like wildfire, a viral spectacle that no amount of damage control could contain. My life, my carefully crafted image, was crumbling before my very eyes.

I straightened, swallowing the lump in my throat as I forced myself to stand tall. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored surface of the ballroom’s gilded pillars—still a perfect bride, but hollowed out inside. The tears that threatened to spill were blinked away, my makeup remaining intact by sheer force of will. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. Not here. Not now.

“Let’s go,” I said, my voice cold and detached as I turned on my heel.

The whispers followed me as I walked down the aisle, Naomi at my side. I caught snippets of murmurs—“Did you hear?” “Poor thing.” “Unbelievable.” Somewhere, someone’s phone clicked, the flash illuminating the moment for posterity. I passed a guest near the aisle—an older man leaning toward my father, whispering something that made my father stiffen. His face was unreadable, but that moment stuck with me, like a sliver lodged in my mind.

The doors opened, and the cool evening air hit me like a slap, a cruel reminder of the world waiting outside. Cameras flashed, reporters shouted questions, and the chaos of reality came crashing in. I climbed into the car waiting at the curb, Naomi right behind me, her hand gripping mine tightly.

As the car pulled away, I glanced back at the estate, its grandeur now a mockery of everything I’d built my life around. One thought burned brighter than all the rest, searing itself into my mind like a brand.

He would pay for this.

Matthew Lane would pay.