Chapter 3

The caller ID showed it was the wedding planner.

As soon as I picked up, he said, "Ms. Grant, I need to confirm something. Mr. Sterling says the ceremony is still on for tomorrow, but the bride's name needs to be changed to Ms. Hart. Should we keep our story straight on this?"

My fingers slackened, and my phone nearly fell out of my hand.

I sat on the couch for what felt like ages before I finally lowered my head to check my phone.

In the wedding group chat, several messages had been pulled back. The makeup artist messaged me: [Ms. Grant, are we still doing the makeup at 5 a.m. tomorrow?]

The hotel manager sent a vague text: [If there are any changes to the schedule, please confirm as soon as possible.] Even the bridesmaids' group was eerily silent.

Finally, Chloe Evans sent me a screenshot of Emily's Facebook post, followed by a string of ellipses, as if she wanted to say more but held back.

In the screenshot, Emily was wearing a silk robe, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window in the new house James and I had planned to move into, and holding a glass of champagne.

That robe was the one I'd just ordered last month, and the initials "O.G." were embroidered on the collar.

The caption was just one line: [You'll end up being the person you're meant to be.]

I stared at the picture, a chill creeping up my back.

Emily was standing in my house and wearing the robe I'd prepared, posing as if she were waiting for the wedding tomorrow.

The next second, a message from James popped up: [Don't blow this up. Let's keep it classy for both of us.]

I stared at his words for a few seconds, and then couldn't help but laugh.

Before today, I always thought the most humiliating thing would be us quarreling at home. But I realized I was wrong.

James had everything planned out. I stepped aside, and he grabbed Emily's hand, going through the motions of the wedding that was meant for me. Everyone would still applaud us for being so grown-up about it.

I deleted James's message and tapped straight into Emily's profile.

Her posts were public. The latest one was just ten minutes ago, a photo of a man's hand around her waist. I knew that cuff. It was the shirt James had worn tonight.

Scrolling down, I saw another post, a shot of the wedding place card. Where it once read "James Sterling & Olivia Grant," someone had neatly crossed out my name and written "Emily Hart" in matching ink.

Suddenly, I felt nauseous. I rushed to the bathroom, dry heaving for what felt like forever. Nothing came out, just my eyes stinging, on the verge of tears.

I looked horrible in the mirror: my hair a mess, and my eyes red and swollen.

I splashed cold water on my face, and my phone buzzed again.

This time, it was a message from Emily.

[Ms. Grant, sorry to bother you. James says you're feeling a bit emotional, so he tells me not to stress you out. I don't want to bug you right now, but someone's gotta handle the wedding stuff.]

After a couple of seconds, another message came in.

[Oh, and James wants me to thank you. You really took care of him. He's way more relaxed now.]

I stared at that line, [he's way more relaxed now], and it felt like someone was poking holes in my heart, one after another.

Emily wasn't trying to rub it in. She was letting me know: everything I did in the past seven years was just prepping him for her.

I stood frozen, my fingers numb, struggling for ages before I finally opened the keyboard.

I kept typing and erasing, over and over.

In the end, I sent one line: [Do you even deserve tomorrow's wedding?]

There was a pause for about ten seconds, and then Emily replied with a photo.

In the picture, James was slouched on the couch, his expression weary. Emily only caught half his face and her own hand in the shot. On her ring finger was the wedding ring I'd agonized over for three months.

Then, she sent another message: [Anyway, the bride is not you.]