Chapter 3

Jessica stepped forward, her voice soft and laced with fake concern.

"Sarah, your wedding dress... I was just thinking," she said, her gaze flicking over me. "The one I helped you pick? I even had access for alterations, remember?"

She paused, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

"It might be too sad for you to wear now. All those memories."

The implication hung in the air: she' d probably tried it on. Pictured herself in it.

My stomach churned.

I looked from her smug face to Mark' s impatient one.

"You know what?" I said, my voice tired but firm. "You two deserve each other."

I stepped back.

"Enjoy the wedding. Just do it without me."

I closed the door in their shocked faces.

The next morning, my phone buzzed with calls from my mother.

Then Mark' s mother.

The wedding was officially off.

The news spread through our social circles like wildfire.

And somehow, I was the villain.

"Sarah was always a bit dramatic," I heard my own mother tell my aunt over the phone, her voice full of exasperated sighs. "Mark' s family is so distinguished. She should have been more understanding."

Understanding. Of what? Of being publicly humiliated?

A few days later, an email landed in my inbox.

Subject: Wedding Memories - Preview!

It was from the videographer. The one Jessica had highly recommended, the one she' d liaised with for all the pre-wedding events.

Curiosity, a sick, morbid kind, made me click the link.

It wasn't a preview of the wedding that never happened.

It was a reel, a sickeningly sweet compilation of Mark and Jessica.

Candid moments.

Them laughing, heads close together at the engagement party.

Jessica playfully feeding Mark a piece of cake at his birthday.

Mark twirling Jessica on a dance floor at a charity gala, his eyes only for her.

Them sharing an inside joke during a family barbecue, their hands brushing.

Overly affectionate. Intimate.

The final shot was from the rehearsal dinner, just before the infamous kiss. Jessica looking up at Mark, her eyes full of adoration, his hand lingering on her waist.

It was like watching a movie of my own personal horror show.

Jessica had made sure I' d see it. Made sure I knew.

I deleted the email, my hands shaking.

My small bakery, "Sarah's Sweets," was my only refuge. The scent of vanilla and yeast, the rhythm of kneading dough, usually calmed me.

But not today.

The bell above the door jingled, and Mark walked in.

He looked tired, but his jaw was set.

"We need to talk," he said, without preamble.

"I don't think we do, Mark."

"My parents, your parents, they want a family summit," he announced, as if it were a royal decree. "Tonight. At The Rittenhouse. To clear the air."

Clear the air? Or pressure me into submission?

"I'm not going."

"Sarah, don't be difficult." He ran a hand through his hair. "This is embarrassing for everyone."

"Embarrassing for me, you mean," I countered.

"You think I don't remember Jessica's other 'misunderstandings'?" I asked, my voice rising. "Like when she 'accidentally' told that food blogger about my new croissant recipe before I launched it? The one that nearly bankrupted me?"

Mark winced. "That was a mistake. She felt terrible."

"So terrible that you felt guilty enough to propose to me a week later?" I shot back.

He had the grace to look away.

"Just come to dinner, Sarah. For my parents. For yours."

He didn't say "for us." There was no "us" anymore.