The floral arrangements, white hydrangeas and blush roses meticulously curated months in advance, lay scattered across the manicured lawn like fallen soldiers. They were no longer symbols of a joyous union; they were casualties of a war waged by a woman who despised the very air I breathed.
“Get out!”
The voice was brittle, sharp as a glass shard. It belonged to Patricia Van Derlyn, my future mother-in-law, a woman who wore her cruelty as comfortably as she wore her Chanel suits.
I stood frozen on the limestone steps of the Van Derlyn estate, the ancestral home where I was supposed to be married in less than two hours. My custom ivory gown, hand-beaded and heavy, suddenly felt like a lead weight dragging me into the earth.
