“I’m ready,” I whispered.
I pushed the doors open. The organ music swelled, deep resonant chords that vibrated in the floorboards. The sound of my heels on the marble was deafening. Click, clack, click, clack. It wasn’t a procession; it was a march. Lonely. Determined.
I could feel the eyes of every guest on me. I saw their polite smiles freeze, their heads tilt in confusion, and then, the worst thing of all: pity. I saw the whispers start behind cupped hands. Where are they? Is she an orphan?
My training kicked in. Chin up. Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Never let the enemy know they scored a hit.
I focused on the end of the aisle. David. He stood there, handsome in his tuxedo, his eyes locked on mine. He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked heartbroken—not for himself, but for me. He knew exactly what this public rejection was costing me. He knew the history of the war I had been fighting since I was seventeen.
