Chapter 1

The night before the wedding, my fiancé suddenly informed me that the wedding had been switched to a company group wedding, run by his workplace.

Up on the stage, several other couples were happily exchanging rings.

And down below, there was one extra person who had no business wearing a wedding gown.

Amy Holland was only an intern who'd just been made permanent. She didn't even have a boyfriend, yet there she stood beside Curt Sanchez, dressed in a trailing white bridal gown of her own.

"Mrs. Sanchez, Curt said there was a company event today, so he made a point of letting me try on a wedding dress once, to see what it's like. And I wanted a photo with Curt to remember it by, to soak up a little of your good luck."

Curt explained it to everyone as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He said you had to look out for the new young people, help a young girl live out a dream.

Watching the two of them, I said nothing.

All afternoon, the other couples were taking pictures with their families, while I, the actual bride, stood alone in a corner watching my fiancé and Amy Holland strike pose after pose for the camera.

Even the coworkers standing nearby couldn't stomach it, muttering under their breath about who exactly the bride was supposed to be.

I looked down at the wrinkled wedding gown on my body, then turned and walked toward the changing room.

If his mind wasn't really on the wine, I might as well let him have what he was after.

...

I walked into the changing room and pulled down the zipper of the main gown, custom-made over six months.

The heavy dress dropped to the floor, exactly like the eight years of my youth that had been trampled underfoot.

Out in the main hall, the emcee was enthusiastically herding the couples together for a group photo.

Through the door, I heard every word of it.

The photographer shouted through his bullhorn:

"Mr. Sanchez, lean a little closer to your bride! Arm around her waist, yes, smile a little sweeter!"

The bride he meant was Amy Holland.

Not me.

I changed into my regular clothes, pushed the door open, and walked straight out the hotel's back entrance to catch a cab.

Not one person stopped me.

And not one person noticed that today's real bride was gone.

I sat in the back seat of the taxi and watched the sky slowly darken.

For three whole hours, my phone was as quiet as if it had been switched off.

No messages, no missed calls. Nothing.

Curt was too busy toasting with his little protégée, taking pictures, drinking in the experience, to spare a thought for me.

Not until eight that evening.

The dinner was about to begin when the screen finally lit up.

The moment I answered, there was no concern, and certainly no panic.

Only undisguised irritation.

"Nadia Quinn, where the hell did you disappear to?"

"Don't tell me you walked out on me just because Amy wanted to try on a wedding dress once. You're really going to make a scene over that?"

"It's just a dress, isn't it? Are you really so petty that you'd humiliate me in front of all those people?"

Every word of it blamed me for nitpicking.

He finished tearing into me, and right on cue, Amy Holland's voice came through the line, thick with tears.

"Mrs. Sanchez, I'm so sorry, this is all my fault."

"I only wanted to soak up a little of your and Curt's good luck, that's why I was shameless enough to wear it once. If I'd known it would upset you, I'd never have put it on, not for anything..."

What a sweet, understanding little flower.

I could even picture the way Curt was standing there now, aching with sympathy as he shielded her behind him.

Nausea rose in my stomach.

I cut through the guilt-tripping on the other end, my voice unnaturally calm.

"I'm a little tired. I'm going home first."

With that, I hung up on him.

The car went dead silent again.

Beyond the window, the neon lights flickered.

I looked down at the engagement diamond on my ring finger.

Curt had bought it when he proposed two years ago.

He'd gotten the size too small.

He said it was too much trouble to exchange, told me to just make do and wear it.

To prove that I loved him, I'd forced myself to wear it for two years, refusing to take it off even when it left my finger purple.

But now, I saw it clearly.

A size that didn't fit only hurt you the harder you tried to keep it.

I slid it off without hesitation.

And along with it, my eight years of feeling for Curt Sanchez, I threw out the car window.