1
Willow
I’m ruiningmy wedding dress.
The thought passes briefly through my mind as I crash through the brush, my vision blurredby the tears pouring from my eyes. The dress was a gift from my soon-to-be-mother-in-law, costing more than I make in a year. I had fallen in love with it at first sight, and cherished it once it was in my possession—often waking up in the middle of the night just to stare at it and watch the hand-sewn gemstones glitter in the moonlight.
Now, it’s ruined—just like my wedding day. With each step, those beautiful, tiny diamonds clatter to the forest floor, leaving a trail of tears in my wake.
It feels like my world is ending. Someone is twirling a rusty blade into the meat of my heart, and my blood has been replaced by acid, searing through my veins and burning the back of my throat with each pained gasp.
In the distance, I can hear the frantic calls of my fiancé—a voice that used to give me so much peace, and now fills me with pain.
I keep seeing those horrible images in my mind whenever I close my eyes. Hear the sounds they were making as theycommitted the ultimate betrayal. My best friend and my fiancé.Together.
Just that simple word running through my mind makes my heart break all over again, and I stumble as a fresh wave of agony pulses through my body.
Falling forward, I brace my hands out in front of me, and when I connect with the ground, sharp, physical pain flares in my palms. I hold on to a tree trunk for support as I stand, cringing at the sight of my blood staining the bark.
I squeeze my eyes tight, attempting to stem the flow of tears. As I do, the memories take over, and I’m stuck in a hellish spiral I can’t escape.
Then…
I walk down the hallway in my too-tall Jimmy Choo heels. They hurt my feet like nothing else, but Nathan said he loves how my calves look in them.
Despite the searing pain, I can’t keep the grin from my face as the tulle of my wedding dress swishes with each step.I’m getting married!
In just a few minutes, I’ll walk down the aisle and say I do to the man of my dreams. ToNathan Vanderwallow.
When Nathan walked into The Salted Bean three years ago, I never expected him to give me any notice. I was exhausted, sweaty, and frazzled from my earlier shift at the diner, and he was a dream come true in his Armani suit, Tom Ford loafers and thousand-dollar haircut.
So frazzled by Nathan, his charming smile, and his dimples, I ended up making his coffee completely wrong.Three times.
Instead of getting upset like I expected, Nathan just laughed, reached into his wallet, and stuffed a wad of hundreds into the tip jar. Then he sipped his ruined coffee, gave me a heart-stopping smile, and asked for my number.
The first date turned into two, then three. Before long, we were celebrating two years as a couple. The week after, Nathan surprised me with a trip to Monaco, where he asked me to be his wife.
In just twenty-four months, I had gone from a struggling artist living paycheck to paycheck, to the fiancé of the city’s wealthiest bachelor. Nathan moved me into his penthouse, set me up with my very own private art studio space in a prime part of the city, and convinced me to quit my jobs so I could focus on my art between planning for the wedding.
Although, now that I think of it, I can’t remember the last time I touched a paintbrush…
I reach up to fiddle with my earring—a habit Nate despises—but quickly drop it to my side, not wanting to accidentally dislodge the large diamond from my lobe. The earrings were an early wedding gift from my mother-in-law, and I can’t afford to be careless with such an expensive present. They’re not exactly precious—like the gold pendant hanging over my heart that was gifted to me by my late mother—but I will cherish the gift all the same.
The earrings are a sign that she’s finally accepted me into the family. I justknowit.
For three years, Mrs. Turner fought against the idea of her son dating someone so—in her words— “low-born.” She never approved of me, my love of art, or the fact that I only had one living family member. “It’s fishy,” is a phrase I often heard whispered to her son across the dinner table.
Really, Mrs. Turner had a problem that my great-aunt Greta was an elementary school teacher whose annual salary was below the national average. But she couldn’t outrightsaythat.
The worst part is, I’ve caught Nathan nodding along sometimes. Like a part of himagreeswith her. Like my great-aunt was someone to be looked down on, and me by extension.
I shake my head, clearing them of those nasty, dark thoughts.This is just the pre-wedding jitters. Everyone gets cold feet and thinks about the troubling way her soon-to-be-husband has treated her. It’s normal.
I have to remind myself that the past doesn’t matter. Not the past, or the way I’ve been treated, or that little pit of dread hardening my stomach. No.Todaymatters. Becausetoday,in my beautiful dress, with my hair and makeup done to the nines, I feel like a princess. Today, I belong somewhere.
Today, I am loved.
Taking a deep breath, I pull my shoulders back and continue my journey to the restroom, careful to hold my train up so it doesn’t drag across the floor. I think that normally, one of my bridesmaids would help me with this task, but none of my friends could afford the ungodly expensive trip to the private resort in the Wyndridge mountains, and no matter how I pleaded or promised to pay him back, Nathan refused to help me pay for their fare.
