The aisle runner was a river of ivory silk, cutting through the humid, suffocating air of the Charleston chapel. The roses were real—hundreds of them, releasing a cloying scent that mixed with the smell of old wood and expensive perfume. The string quartet was sawing its way through “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” the exact melody Ethan Mercer had begged for on the night he proposed.
It felt less like a wedding and more like a stage play where I was the only actor who hadn’t received the script rewrite.
I stood at the end of the aisle, my hands trembling inside the delicate lace sleeves of my gown. Beside me, my father, Richard Coleman, squeezed my arm. It wasn’t a comforting gesture; his fingers dug into my bicep with a bruising force.
“Smile, Charlotte,” he muttered, his voice a low growl barely audible over the music. “You look like you’re walking to a funeral. Do not embarrass me today.”
I forced the corners of my mouth upward. I was good at that. I had spent twenty-six years perfecting the art of being the “agreeable” daughter, the shadow to my sister’s light, the silent financier of a family that treated me like a regrettable expense.
Ethan waited under the floral arch. He wore a tailored navy suit, looking handsome in that polished, slightly manufactured way that had always made me feel lucky to be chosen. But as I drew closer, I noticed something wrong. He wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was fixed over my shoulder, locked onto the front row.
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