Chapter 3

The day before the wedding is a blur of fake smiles and final preparations.

Our friends, mostly Ethan's old colleagues from the force who stuck by him, are all here. His former partner, Dave, a gruff man with a heart of gold, claps Ethan on the back.

"You finally did it, you lucky bastard. Gabby's the best thing that ever happened to you."

"I know," Ethan says, his eyes finding mine across the room. The love in his gaze is so real, so convincing, it almost makes me doubt what I heard.

But then I remember. Static.

Later that evening, Ethan insists I try on the dress one last time.

"Just to make sure it's perfect," he says, his hands carefully unzipping the garment bag.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror as he helps me into the gown. The silk is cool against my skin, the lace intricate and fragile. He fusses with the back, his fingers gentle as he fastens the tiny buttons.

"You look..." he starts, his voice thick with emotion. "Perfect."

He looks at my reflection in the mirror, his face full of a love so profound it makes me sick with guilt. This is the man I wrote into existence, the one I saved. And this is the man I have to abandon.

As he kneels to adjust the hem, his phone buzzes urgently on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a single name: Annabel.

He glances at it, a flicker of something-annoyance? concern?-crossing his face. He ignores it.

It buzzes again. And again.

With a sigh, he stands up. "Sorry, one second."

He answers the phone, his voice low. "Annie? What's wrong? ...Slow down, I can't understand you."

His posture changes. He becomes the detective again-sharp, focused, all his attention zeroed in on the crisis at the other end of the line.

"Okay. Stay right there. Don't move. I'm coming."

He hangs up and turns to me, his face a mask of grim determination. "I'm sorry, Gabby. It's an emergency. Annabel... she's having some kind of panic attack. I have to go."

He doesn't wait for my response. He rushes for the door, his mind already at the guesthouse. In his haste, his arm catches on the delicate lace sleeve of my dress.

Rrrrip.

The sound is small but shockingly violent in the quiet room. A long tear now mars the perfect sleeve.

He doesn't even notice. He's already out the door, his footsteps pounding down the stairs. He doesn't look back.

I stand there, in the torn wedding dress, staring at my reflection. The ripped lace is a perfect symbol of us. Beautiful, expensive, and irrevocably broken.