I was humiliated on my wedding day and ran away to my aunt’s village, thinking she’d be the one person who wouldn’t judge me. But she didn’t let me stay in her house—she sent me to sleep in her abandoned old bakery instead. Six months later, when she came back to sell the place, she walked in… and went completely still.
On the morning of Anya Mercer’s wedding, the bridal suite looked like something that belonged in a magazine spread—soft window light, white robes, champagne flutes sweating on a mirrored tray, and a slow, careful swirl of hairspray that hung in the air like fog.
Her mother stood behind her chair, hands steady on Anya’s shoulders. “Just breathe,” she murmured for what had to be the twentieth time. “Just breathe, Anya.”
Anya nodded, because nodding was easier than speaking. If she opened her mouth, she might say something she couldn’t take back—like I don’t know if I can do this. Or worse: I’m not sure I even want to.
Not because she didn’t love Ethan Caldwell. She did. She had, anyway. In the way you love a future you’ve already started living in your head. In the way you love the shape of a life someone offers you, especially when everyone you’ve ever known has been waiting for you to take it.
