The rain did not stop when Seraphina was carried home. It beat down on the roof as if trying to break through and flood the quiet townhouse with the same storm that had drowned her heart. Marcelline had half-dragged, half-guided her sister up the stone steps, arms trembling from the weight of Seraphina's sodden gown. By the time they reached the bedroom, the satin was ruined, clinging to her body like a corpse's shroud.
Marcelline tried to speak, tried to peel the wet fabric away, but Seraphina resisted, clutching at the ruined dress as though letting it go would mean acknowledging everything else she had lost. When at last she collapsed into bed, the veil still stuck with mud on its edge, she turned her face to the wall and did not move.
For hours, she lay there.
The phone that phone lay on the bedside table. Its black screen reflected a faint ghost of her face in the dim light, the mascara streaks, the red rims of her eyes. She turned toward it once, hand twitching as if to reach, then snatched it back as if the device itself burned. But it did not matter. The images had already branded themselves into her mind. Lucian's hand sliding up Isolde's thigh, the tilt of his mouth against her throat, the timestamp glowing like a cruel clock.
At first, Seraphina whispered to herself. Small, broken denials. "It wasn't real. Maybe it was old. Maybe… maybe it was a mistake." Her lips trembled around the words. They offered no comfort. Each time her thoughts circled back, the truth returned sharper, more cutting, until she pressed her hands over her ears as if she could muffle her own mind.
Food was brought up by Marcelline at dusk soup steaming gently, bread still warm. Seraphina did not touch it. The tray sat on the dresser until the broth cooled, a skin forming over the surface, the smell of onions turning bitter. Her stomach growled once, a dull protest, but she pressed her face deeper into the pillow, willing it away. Hunger was easier than remembering.
Night came, but sleep did not. Each time she closed her eyes, the images returned, more vivid than before. She could almost hear Isolde's laugh, Lucian's low voice against her ear. At one point, with a broken sob, she sat upright and groped for the phone. Her thumb trembled over the gallery, over the cursed photos. She thought of deleting them, of wiping the proof from the world. But her finger hovered uselessly, unable to press. If she erased them, she feared she would erase her right to be angry. To hurt. To remember why everything had shattered.
Instead, she stared at them again and again, as if staring enough times might change the ending. Each time it felt like another stab. Each time her throat closed tighter.
By dawn, her eyes burned and her body shook from exhaustion. She caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room and almost screamed. The woman staring back was not Seraphina Vale, radiant bride-to-be. This one had swollen eyes, hair plastered in tangles, lips bitten raw. She tore her gaze away, curling against the headboard as the sobs came in fresh waves.
"Why?" she whispered into the silence. "Why wasn't I enough?"
The words echoed faintly in the room, pitiful, unanswered.
Marcelline knocked softly mid-morning. "Sera… please eat something. Please let me in."
Seraphina shook her head even though her sister could not see. Her voice rasped, hoarse from crying. "Go away, Marcy. I can't. I can't face anyone."
The door creaked open anyway. Marcelline stepped inside with cautious feet, a tray of tea and toast balanced in her hands. Her eyes were swollen too, as if she had wept through the night as well. She set the tray down and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Sera…" She reached to tuck a strand of hair from her sister's damp cheek. "He doesn't deserve your tears."
Seraphina flinched. The kindness only made it worse. She pressed her hands to her temples, her voice rising. "But I gave him everything, Marcy! My trust, my heart God, I gave him years. And for what? So he could crawl into her bed two nights before our wedding?"
Marcelline's jaw tightened. "Then he doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you."
The fierceness in her sister's tone broke something inside Seraphina. She shook her head, tears spilling faster. "But I still love him. Even after everything, I… I hate myself for it, but I still" Her voice cracked. She bit her lip until it bled.
Marcelline pulled her close, arms wrapping tight around her trembling frame. "You'll stop loving him, Sera. One day you will. I swear it."
But Seraphina didn't believe her. Not yet.
The day dragged on in heavy silence. She did not dress. She did not move except to clutch the pillow tighter. Neighbors must have whispered already weddings that ended in ruin never stayed secret long. She imagined the stories spreading like fire, people savoring every cruel detail: the bride abandoned, the groom exposed, the friend who betrayed.
When the sun set again, she rose at last, not to eat or to wash, but to pace the room like a ghost. Her bare feet traced paths into the rug, her whispers tumbling in broken fragments. "He held her like he held me. He kissed her like… like…" She choked on the words, pressing a hand to her mouth. "And I saw it. I can never unsee it."
Marcelline watched from the doorway, helpless.
The second night came, and still no sleep. Seraphina sat curled in the corner of the room, the phone clutched to her chest as if it were a weapon she both feared and needed. The shadows of the room seemed to lean toward her, listening to her muttered fragments. At one point, she laughed a hollow, jagged sound that frightened even herself.
"He said they were nothing. Nothing." Her laugh dissolved into another sob. "If this is nothing, then what is everything?"
By the third morning, her voice was almost gone. Her throat was raw, her body weak. When she staggered to the mirror again, the stranger who stared back seemed even further away.
The bride had died on the marble floor of the cathedral. What remained was a woman whose heart had been dragged through fire and left in ashes.
And somewhere in those ashes, a small, defiant part of her still whispered of him.