The hall glittered with scarlet and ivory, a cathedral of glass chandeliers and candlelight where every guest seemed to hold their breath in admiration. Seraphina Vale stood in the antechamber just beyond the great oak doors, her veil pinned in place, her heart beating a rhythm too loud for silence. The scent of roses and polished wood was thick in the air, almost suffocating. She lifted one gloved hand to her chest, pressing down as though she could quiet the storm beneath her ribs.
Marcelline, her younger sister, crouched at her side, fussing with the hem of the gown. "You look like you were carved for this moment, Sera," she whispered, voice hushed but warm. "Like some kind of queen. They'll all be stunned."
Seraphina gave her a weak smile. She had always imagined this day glowing with perfection. She had imagined walking toward Lucian and feeling certainty, a surety that would settle like gold in her chest. Instead, standing there now, her hands clammy in satin gloves, she felt not triumph but something that prickled like unease.
The violins swelled, the great doors swung open, and the world filled with light.
Gasps rippled through the audience as her gown shimmered under crystal chandeliers, the lace trailing behind her like a river of moonlight. The marble floor reflected the glimmer of candles as though she were walking on fire. She caught flashes of faces: Vivienne Armand, her boss, with her sharp bob and sharper eyes; cousins leaning forward with pride; Elias Marrick, Lucian's younger brother, offering a tentative smile. The air hummed with the quiet awe of a hundred people watching her glide toward the altar.
And there, at the end of the aisle, Lucian Marrick stood waiting. Tall, aristocratic, chestnut hair gleaming, green eyes lit with a charm that had once unraveled her. He looked every inch the man she had promised her life to. Every inch the man she had believed in.
Yet her stomach tightened with each step, as though her body knew something her mind refused to name.
She reached him. His smile widened, and he reached for her hand with perfect grace. The officiant began to speak, voice steady and sonorous, words that should have anchored her to joy. Instead, she felt a thin thread pulling at the seams of her composure.
Then came the first whisper.
It flickered through the crowd like a draft of cold air. One guest leaned into another, brows furrowed, murmurs swelling like a tide. Seraphina blinked, confusion stirring. She searched the rows, and that was when she noticed a woman leaning forward, discreetly extending something toward her.
A phone.
Her hand hesitated before taking it. Cold metal pressed into her palm, jarring against the warmth of the bouquet she clutched. Hidden beneath the roses, she tilted the screen toward herself.
The world tilted violently.
Lucian's unmistakable frame sprawled across hotel sheets, his shirt half unbuttoned, his smile lazy and wolfish. His hand rested possessively on the bare thigh of a woman wrapped in silk. Another photo: his mouth pressed to her throat, teeth grazing skin, the woman laughing, eyes closed in pleasure. Another: his hand tangled in her hair as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Isolde Renn.
Her maid of honor. Her best friend.
Her vision sharpened, too sharp, until every detail cut her. The timestamp burned into her retinas. Two nights ago. She had been sitting in her room with Marcelline, painting her nails scarlet and laughing about her vows, while Lucian
Her throat constricted.
No.
Her mind rebelled, clawing for excuses. Maybe it was an old photo, maybe it was staged, maybe it wasn't what it looked like. But then she remembered the way Isolde had adjusted her veil earlier with trembling hands. The way Lucian had avoided her gaze when she asked if he'd slept well yesterday. Little cracks she had dismissed, all snapping into place now with brutal clarity.
Her knees weakened. Her fingers gripped the bouquet until thorns pressed through stems, pricking her skin. Around her, the guests blurred, their whispers swelling, some gasping, some already leaning forward for a better look.
Her head lifted slowly, as though dragged upward by a cruel string. Lucian's smile faltered as he caught the storm in her eyes.
"Lucian," she whispered, her voice thin, almost strangled. "Tell me this isn't real."
His hand twitched toward hers, steadying his mask of charm. "Sera, it's—don't do this here." His voice was soft, coaxing, too smooth. "They mean nothing. You are everything. You know that."
Her gaze snapped sideways. Isolde. Standing so close, clutching her bouquet too tightly, her knuckles pale, her lips parted. The guilt in her hazel eyes was louder than any confession.
Seraphina's world cracked open. The marble beneath her feet might as well have split.
"Nothing?" she hissed, the word cutting the silence like broken glass. She thrust the phone at Lucian, its light glaring against his polished face. "That" her voice shook, rising as every guest strained to listen "is nothing?"
Gasps detonated across the hall. Someone in the back shrieked. A man swore. The whispers became a roar of disbelief.
Lucian lunged forward, desperate now, green eyes wide with something like fear. "Listen to me, Seraphina. It was a mistake, nothing more. I love you. I've always loved you."
"Love?" The word snapped from her lips like venom. "You call that love?"
She felt the tears break free, hot rivers down her cheeks, smudging her mascara. Her body trembled with fury and heartbreak, her chest heaving. With shaking hands, she tore the veil from her head. The pins yanked at her scalp, releasing a cascade of raven hair. The veil fell to the marble and was crushed under the shuffling of restless feet.
"Seraphina, please" Lucian's voice cracked now, no longer velvet, but desperate, raw.
"Don't you dare touch me!" she spat, pulling her hand away when he reached for her. "Don't you dare."
The officiant tried to speak, tried to steady the chaos, but no one listened. The perfect ceremony had shattered. Seraphina could barely hear over the roar of her own pulse as she turned and fled down the aisle.
The oak doors loomed. She slammed them open, and the night air hit her like a slap. Rain had begun to fall, soft and relentless, soaking into silk and lace within seconds. The gown dragged heavy behind her, catching on cobblestones as she stumbled into the street.
"Sera!" Marcelline's voice rang out, sharp and terrified. "Wait"
But Seraphina couldn't wait. Her chest burned as she ran, the bouquet slipping from her grip, roses scattering across the wet stones like drops of blood. Her vision blurred with tears and rain alike.
At the edge of the street she collapsed, knees striking hard against the cobblestones. She crumpled, the weight of silk and betrayal crashing down on her. Her hands clawed at the stones as sobs tore from her throat.
Marcelline caught up, crouching beside her, hands gripping her shoulders. "Sera, breathe. Just breathe."
But Seraphina couldn't. Her mascara streaked her pale cheeks, her hair plastered to her skin, the ruined veil lying in the mud like a ghost of the bride she would never be. Above her, the storm blurred into a haze of rain and grief.
The perfect wedding was over before a single vow had been spoken.