But what if Delilah’s right? What if all of this is a lie?
My hand hovers over the gear shift. Love, loyalty, the desperate urge to trust my heart, all of it pulls at me, fighting the doubt gnawing deep in my gut.
I freeze.
For one last moment, I sit there, my heart lodged in my throat, the choice before me yawning wide like a chasm I’m too afraid to cross. I want to go in. I want to fix this, to look into her eyes and believe everything is still whole.
But I can’t.
My heart can’t take the truth if it isn’t what I need it to be. Not now.
I shift into reverse.
Gravel crunches under the tires. The venue shrinks in the rearview, blurring with my vision.
I drive away from the altar.
From Lara.
From the truth.
Chapter 6
Lara
Ipace the apartment, arms wrapped tight around myself, like I’m the only thing holding me together. My phone pings nonstop, calls, messages from catering, the planner, the DJ. I should respond. I should do something.
But I can’t.
Each ping feels like a slap. Each message drags me deeper into this nightmare. I drop the phone; it bounces off the couch. I don’t care.
I sink to the floor. The cold hardwood presses into my skin, grounding me in the wreckage. The weight of everything I thought I had crushes me. I wanted the wedding, the dress, the fairy tale, the “happily ever after.” Now? I can’t even show up to my own.
The phone buzzes again. Connor. The DJ. Another message from the planner, polite reminders to pay or reschedule. Each word lands like a punch, but none cut deeper than the silence around me.
I glance at the screen. My thumb hovers over the notifications. Disgust twists in my stomach. I used to dream of helping women budget for life events. Now I’m the one left at the altar, buried in debt.
Gideon.
His name flashes across the screen, followed by a photo, him and Delilah. Faces too close. Her hand on his chest sears through me. I can’t look away, though I don’t want to see it.
Why is he doing this? Why is he letting her play him?
A sob rises, but I swallow it. My chest tightens. The ache in my stomach flares, fire licking under my skin.
I squeeze my eyes shut, palms pressed to my face. Blocking it out only makes it worse.
Am I stupid? Just a placeholder? Was Delilah right?
My fingers hover over the phone. The urge to text him, to demand answers, nearly suffocates me. My pulse throbs in my fingertips, begging me to reach out.
But I won’t.
I fucking won’t.
The phone slips between the couch cushions as my hand drops to my side. He won’t see how much this hurts. He won’t see how much I still want him, even now.
I want to scream, but nothing comes, just shallow breaths that barely fill my lungs.
