Grace Reed had practiced her smile in the car mirror three times.
The wedding binder sat heavy on the passenger seat, bulging with fabric samples and venue photographs she'd spent the last two weeks collecting. She'd even circled her favorites in red pen, imagining how excited Marcus would be when she showed him. The Sterling Plaza had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. The Hamptons estate had gardens that looked like something from a fairy tale. Both were perfect. Both were expensive. Both required his approval.
She always required his approval.
The mansion loomed ahead, her childhood home with its iron gates and stone columns. Grace pulled into the driveway at 3 PM on a Tuesday, knowing her father would still be at the office and her stepmother Helena would be at her charity lunch. Marcus had texted that morning: home by 5, have dinner ready? She'd texted back immediately. Of course.
She was always ready.
The front door unlocked easily. Her keys still worked, though she'd been moving gradually into Marcus's apartment across town. Soon she wouldn't need these keys. Soon she'd be Mrs. Ashford, and her childhood bedroom would become a guest room, and her father would finally look proud of her.
Grace climbed the marble staircase, her footsteps echoing against high ceilings. The house smelled like lemon polish and her father's expensive cologne. She'd grown up in these halls, learned to walk quietly in them, learned to make herself smaller so she wouldn't disturb the careful order of things.
The sound stopped her mid-step.
It came from her father's study on the second floor. A low laugh, unmistakably male. Then another sound. A gasp. Movement. The kind of sounds that made Grace's stomach tighten before her brain caught up to what she was hearing.
She told herself it was nothing. The housekeeper. Her father come home early. Anything but what her body was screaming that it was.
Grace walked toward the study anyway. The binder hung from her fingers like a weapon she'd forgotten she was carrying. The door was cracked open, just enough.
Just enough to see everything.
Marcus lay on the leather couch her father spent a small fortune on for business meetings. His shirt was unbuttoned. His tie hung loose around his neck. Above him, straddling him, was Vivian. Grace's stepsister. Vivian's dark hair fell across Marcus's chest as she laughed, that low, satisfied sound that made Grace's ears ring.
It lasted one second. Two. Grace couldn't move.
Marcus saw her first. His eyes widened, then his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Not apologetic. Not even surprised. Like he'd been caught doing something embarrassing but not wrong.
"Grace," he said, sitting up slightly. Vivian turned, her dress falling from one shoulder. She didn't scramble to fix it. She didn't look ashamed. She looked amused.
"Oh my God," Vivian breathed, and the amusement became a smirk. "Is this the wedding binder thing?"
Grace's fingers tightened on the folder. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Marcus was buttoning his shirt. How casual it was, like he was getting ready for work, not like he'd just destroyed her entire life with his hands on someone else's body. "Look, Grace, this isn't what it seems like."
Every movie, every book, every conversation she'd overheard had prepared her for a man to say those words. But nothing had prepared her for how absolutely hollow they sounded.
"We've been together for over a year," Vivian said. She was standing now, smoothing her dress down with the confidence of someone who'd never questioned her right to take anything she wanted. "Since before you two even got engaged, actually. He's just been kind of stuck with you because your father made the deal with his father."
The ringing in Grace's ears got louder.
"Don't be dramatic," Marcus said, not looking at her. "Vivian's exaggerating. It hasn't been a year." He pulled on his jacket like they were having a conversation about the weather. "Look, you're a good person, Grace. You really are. But you're boring. You know that, right? You're kind of... there. But you're never really there. You know what I mean?"
Grace did know. She'd always known. It was why she made him breakfast before work. Why she listened to his stories without interrupting. Why she'd agreed to move in with his family after the wedding even though it meant leaving New York. She'd thought being useful was the same as being loved.
She'd been wrong about that.
"He chose me because I actually have feelings," Vivian added, stepping closer to Marcus. He put his arm around her, and something in Grace's chest cracked open like an egg. "You never even fight back, Grace. Why would any man choose you?"
The words hung in the air between them. Grace stood in the doorway holding a binder full of happy memories that didn't exist yet and couldn't exist at all. She thought about how long she'd spent collecting these photographs. How carefully she'd compared vendors. How many hours she'd spent imagining a wedding to a man who'd been sleeping with her stepsister for longer than they'd been engaged.
She thought about her father coming home and asking how work was, expecting her to say everything was perfect.
She thought about the other people who'd be invited to that wedding that would never happen now, and how she'd have to explain to all of them why.
"I—" she started, but the word came out broken.
Vivian laughed again. That laugh. That satisfied, superior laugh.
Grace turned and walked out of the study. Her hands were shaking so badly the binder fell from her fingers and scattered across the hallway floor. Photographs spilled down the marble stairs like confetti. The happy couple at the Sterling Plaza with the view. The fairy tale garden. The perfect wedding cake. All of it falling and falling.
She made it to the bathroom before she was sick.
When she emerged, face wet and shaking, she heard Marcus calling her name from downstairs. She heard the front door open. Heard Vivian's laugh mixing with Marcus's voice like they were already a couple, already complete without her.
Grace locked herself in her childhood bedroom. Her old posters still hung on the walls. Her childhood books sat on the shelves. Everything was exactly as she'd left it, frozen in time, waiting for her to grow into the version of herself that would finally be good enough.
Her phone buzzed. Her father: Running late. Don't forget the reservations at Eleven Madison Park.
She stared at the message. He didn't know yet. The whole family didn't know yet. In a few hours, everyone would know that the wedding was off. Everyone would know what Marcus had been doing. Everyone would know that Grace Reed couldn't even keep a man interested enough to be faithful for three weeks before their wedding.
Her phone rang. Her father. She couldn't answer. She let it ring and ring and ring until it stopped.
Then it rang again.