The venue coordinator had smiled at me, assured me everything was perfect. I'd run my fingers along the white silk draped across the altar, imagined Jacob standing there in his navy suit, the one that made his eyes look impossibly blue.
Now, standing outside the restaurant, phone pressed to my ear, I couldn't stop grinning.
"Missing me already?" I teased, pushing through the glass door.
Jacob's voice crackled through the speaker. "Did you visit the hall again?"
"Yes, and it's absolutely—" My heel hit something slick. The world tilted.
My arms windmilled, phone flying from my grip. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for impact with the hard tile floor.
Instead, my palms landed on something firm but yielding. Fabric. Muscle beneath it.
I opened my eyes.
My hands were planted squarely on a man's butt. He was crouched low, tying his shoelace, completely frozen in place.
A scream tore from my throat.
He shot upright and spun around. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, designer shirt. His face cycled through shock, then settled into something cold.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but you can't just grab—"
"I didn't grab anything!" Heat flooded my cheeks. "I slipped! There's water on the floor!"
"You should apologize before defending yourself."
My watch read 4:47 PM. Dinner with Jacob's parents at 6:00. I needed to get home, shower, change. "I have somewhere to be."
I snatched my phone from the floor and bolted, his voice calling after me, fading as I hit the sidewalk.
---
White roses lined the aisle, their perfume thick and sweet. The string quartet played Pachelbel, each note swelling as I clutched my father's arm.
"You ready, princess?" Dad's voice was thick with emotion.
I nodded, couldn't speak past the lump in my throat. Twenty-seven years, and this was it. The moment everything changed.
The double doors opened. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
There he was. Broad shoulders in a black tuxedo, back straight, facing the altar.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Mrs. Jacob Riley. Nora Riley. I'd practiced the signature a hundred times in my journal.
Dad walked me forward. One step. Two. The hem of my dress whispered across the marble.
The groom turned.
My smile cracked. Fractured. Fell.
Wrong eyes. Wrong face. Wrong everything.
The quartet played on. Guests smiled, oblivious. My father squeezed my arm, kept walking, kept pulling me forward.
No. No, no, no.
I twisted toward the entrance. Empty. The doors were closed.
We reached the altar. Dad kissed my cheek, pressed my hand into the stranger's palm. His skin was cold. Or maybe mine was.
The officiant opened his book. "Dearly beloved..."
I leaned close to the stranger, my veil hiding our faces. "Where is my groom?" My voice came out thin, reedy. "Who are you?"
He stared straight ahead. His jaw tightened.
"What are you doing here?" I tried again, desperate.
Nothing. Not a flicker. Like I'd spoken to a statue.
He's standing in for Jacob, I told myself. Some weird tradition I don't know about. Noelle mentioned something once about proxies in Colombian weddings...
"Do you, Nora Matthews, take this man—"
"I do." The words left my mouth on autopilot.
"You may kiss the bride."
His lips touched mine. Brief. Cold. Professional.
The guests erupted in applause.
I yanked up my skirt and ran.
---
The bridal suite door slammed behind me. My fingers shook so badly I could barely unlock my phone.
Three rings. Four.
"Hello?"
"Jacob!" His name burst out like a sob. "What is going on? Where were you?"
Silence stretched. Then: "This must be Nora."
My stomach dropped.
"I'm not Jacob. And that wasn't my wedding. I dated you for someone else. I believe you've met him now."
The room spun. I gripped the vanity edge. "What are you talking about?"
"God, you're exhausting." His voice had changed, lost all its warmth. "Just live your life with your husband. I've got other clients waiting."
The line went dead.
I stared at my reflection. White dress. Smeared mascara. A stranger's lipstick still on my mouth.
The phone slipped from my hand, clattered against the tile.
Clients. He said clients.
---
The cab driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror. Probably didn't see many brides in full wedding regalia fleeing their own reception.
Jacob's apartment building looked the same. Red brick, black shutters, the broken buzzer he'd promised to fix for three months.
I took the stairs, couldn't wait for the elevator. By the third floor, my lungs burned. The dress weighed a thousand pounds.
I pounded on 3C. "Jacob! Open up! Jacob!"
The door swung open.
A man I'd never seen before filled the doorway. Tattoos crawled up his neck. He held a cigarette between two fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling.
"Yeah?"
"I'm looking for Jacob. The man who lives here."
He took a long drag. "No Jacob here."
"He lives in 3C. I've been here dozens of times—"
"Last guy moved out four days ago. I moved in three days ago. So." He started to close the door.
I jammed my foot in the gap. "Four days ago?"
"Lady, I don't know what to tell you."
The door shut. The deadbolt clicked.
Four days ago was Monday. We'd had coffee on Tuesday. He'd kissed me goodbye Wednesday morning.
My knees buckled. I sat down hard on the hallway carpet, tulle and silk pooling around me.
A door opened down the hall. An elderly woman peeked out, eyes wide. The door closed quickly.
How long I sat there, I don't know. Could've been five minutes. Could've been an hour.
The stairwell door opened. Heavy footsteps.
Two men in black suits approached. They moved like soldiers—backs straight, eyes scanning, hands ready at their sides.
"Mrs. Riley." Not a question. "We're here to take you to your residence."
I laughed. It came out wrong, high-pitched and jagged. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
They didn't move. Didn't speak. Just... waited.
"What, no kidnapping? No throwing me over your shoulder?" I pulled my knees to my chest. "Come on, that's how this works in movies."
Nothing. They stood there like marble statues.
Fine. I could wait too.
---
The hallway lights had that buzzing fluorescent hum. My stomach growled. The elderly woman opened her door twice, looked at us, closed it again.
The tattooed man came out once. "What the hell?"
The suit on the left moved so fast I barely saw it. One second Tattoo Guy was reaching for me, the next he was face-down on the carpet, arm twisted behind his back, a fist raised above his head.
"Stop!" My voice cracked.
The fist froze.
"Let him go."
They released him. He scrambled back into his apartment, slammed the door. Three locks clicked in rapid succession.
My legs had gone numb. Pins and needles shot through my calves when I tried to stand.
"We'll leave now."
I didn't have a choice. When I stumbled, they caught me. Their grip was firm but not rough. They guided me to the elevator like handlers with a drunk celebrity.
The SUV waited at the curb, engine running.
---
The apartment was on the forty-second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city. Marble countertops. Leather furniture. Everything in shades of black, white, and steel gray.
The men left without a word.
I stood in the entryway, still in my wedding dress, and stared.
On the kitchen island: a black credit card. A Post-it note with four numbers written in sharp, precise handwriting.
I picked up the card. It was heavy. Real. My name was embossed on the front: NORA RILEY.
The bathroom was larger than my old bedroom. A clawfoot tub sat beneath a window, city lights twinkling below. I turned on the water, watched it steam.
Wine bottles lined a rack near the sink. I grabbed one—didn't read the label—and poured a glass.
The hot water turned my skin pink. I sank down until only my nose was above the surface. The wine was dry, expensive, tasted like rich people and bad decisions.
This isn't as bad as I imagined.
The thought came unbidden. I shoved it away, but it lingered.
---
The closet was a room unto itself. One side: men's suits, dress shirts, ties arranged by color. Everything pressed and pristine.
The other side: women's clothes with tags still attached. Size 6. My size. Dresses, blouses, jeans. Designer names I'd only seen in magazines.
A row of shoes. Also size 6.
I pulled out a soft cotton top and pink lounge pants. The fabric was expensive, buttery against my skin.
The bed was massive. California king, maybe larger. The sheets were cool and crisp, probably had a thread count higher than my rent.
I climbed in, pulled the comforter to my chin.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd figure this out. Find answers. Track down Jacob and whoever this De
rek Riley was. Tomorrow I'd—
A sound cut through the silence.
Soft. Scratching.
Coming from the closet.
My fingers dug into the comforter. I held my breath.
The scratching came again, followed by a small, plaintive sound.
A
Meow