Part One – The Groom Who Ran
She was left at the altar. Sophia Davis stood just behind the half-open doors of the grand ballroom at the Ritz-Carlton in New York City, fingers digging into the polished wood as the urge to run surged through her. On the other side of the doors, two hundred guests shifted in their seats, their murmurs rolling like a low storm under the glittering chandeliers.
The orchestra, booked months in advance and paid for in U.S. dollars that could have bought a small condo in Brooklyn, had fallen into an awkward silence. Her uncle Frank’s gravelly voice cut through the low hum.
“Well, this is something,” he muttered near the bar. “Two hours late. I’d bet anything that coward bailed.”
Laughter—choked at first, then freer—trickled through the crowd.
“Poor thing,” a woman said, her voice saturated with pity and curiosity. “Can you imagine the humiliation? All that money Gerard spent—this ballroom, those flowers, a whole orchestra—and the groom doesn’t even have the nerve to show up.”
Another uneasy laugh joined hers, then another.
The entire hall seemed to vibrate with barely concealed morbid fascination. Sophia squeezed her eyes shut. The corset of her white lace gown dug into her ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Every inhale hurt. Every second that passed dragged her deeper into an abyss she didn’t know how to climb out of. “I saw him this morning,” someone blurted, their voice rich with the sticky sweetness of gossip.
“He posted an Instagram story. He was at JFK, Terminal 4. International flights.”
“No way,” another voice answered.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Look.” The speaker’s tone sharpened with excitement. “He went to Vegas with his buddies.
Here’s the proof—check my phone.”
The whispering swelled into a wave—nervous giggles, fake gasps, too-loud whispers that everyone pretended were subtle. Screens lit up row by row as people passed around evidence of Sophia’s humiliation. Sophia’s legs trembled beneath the heavy layers of French lace.
The bouquet of white roses slipped from her fingers and hit the carpet with a muted thud. Her best friend, Chloe, darted down to scoop it up. “Soph,” Chloe hissed, squeezing her arm, “don’t listen to them.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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