The fairy lights looked like a galaxy poured over the entrance of Rosebridge Hall. White roses climbed the archway, music floated from the ballroom, and guests in tuxedos lifted their phones to capture the perfect beginning of a perfect love story.
Then the woman with the shovel stepped out of the dusk.
Claire wore a gray button-down and black jeans, not a gown. The shovel she carried wasn’t polished or pretty. But someone had tucked a small bouquet of white ranunculus onto the blade—flowers delicate enough to make the cold metal look almost ceremonial.
Inside the archway, the groom stiffened. Daniel. He was handsome in his tux, the picture of a man whose life had worked out exactly the way he planned. Beside him, the bride—Isabelle—held his arm with a bright, practiced smile that dimmed as the guests began to murmur.
Claire didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The shovel did the announcing for her as she set its tip on the asphalt between two identical red sports cars. “Good evening,” she said, her eyes on Daniel. “Did you really think you could bury me so easily?”
