Maverick worked for his dad’s construction company. Tall, solidly built, with sandy-brown hair and those green eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled—everyone loved calling us the picture-perfect couple.

“You’re so fortunate, Amy,” the school moms would gush during pickup. “That man is a gem.”
“And that ring! He must adore you,” they’d say, admiring the simple, lovely diamond he’d spent eight months saving for.

I believed them. I believed every bit of it.

Penelope, my maid of honor and best friend since we were seven, was stunning—long black hair, flawless style, the kind of woman people turned to look at. But to me, she was more than that. She was the friend who stayed up with me before exams, who held my hand through ugly cries, who grieved deeply with me when my grandmother passed.