Chapter 1

Two days before the wedding, while I was prepping for the banquet, I ran into a drunk who was looking for trouble.

In the chaos, I got shoved to the ground, and my arm got sliced open with a long gash.

After calling the cops, I was taken to the station to give a statement.

While I was waiting, I was sweating bullets from the pain. I called my fiancé, David Foster, seventeen times before he finally picked up.

"David, I'm at the police station. I'm hurt," I said.

On the other end, his voice was gentle.

"Sweetheart, don't be dramatic. You know what they say: it's bad luck to see each other before the wedding. I know you're nervous and want to see me, but you don't have to make up an excuse like this, alright?"

Just as I was about to explain, I heard Rachel Harrison's soft, delicate voice in the background.

"David, Claire's always been sensitive. You should go check on her. I'll be fine on my own."

David's tone turned serious.

"Rachel's electricity went out, and I just happened to be nearby, so I helped her out.

"Don't overthink it. Just wait for me to come marry you in style tomorrow."

With that, he hung up.

The screen went dark, reflecting my pale, disheveled face.

For six years, whenever something happened to his precious Rachel, he'd drop everything and run straight to her.

No matter what, I was always left behind. He'd always take care of her first.

I used to think that once we got married, everything would finally be okay.

The officer walked over, looking concerned.

"Miss, is your fiancé coming to pick you up?" he said.

I shook my head and blocked David's number.

He wasn't coming today.

I wasn't going to show up at the wedding tomorrow either.

*****

I kept staring at my phone until the officer called my name for the third time.

"Claire Evans, come over and finish your statement."

I pushed myself up from the chair, and the bandage on my left arm quickly started to bleed, the white edges turning red.

The officer frowned. "That's a pretty deep cut. You should get it stitched up at the hospital later."

I nodded.

I'd already blocked David's number.

But half an hour later, he tried calling me using Rachel's phone.

I stared at the name on the screen and let it ring without answering.

He called again.

And again.

The officer glanced at me.

"Can't take the call?"

I shook my head and answered the call.

David's voice came through the phone, sounding more anxious than before. "Claire, you're really at the station?"

I didn't say anything.

He sounded relieved, then lowered his voice, trying to comfort me. "I thought you were just throwing a tantrum. You never really say what's wrong when you're hurting.

"Are you hurt bad? I'll send the driver to get you."

On the other end, Rachel said, "David, the breaker tripped again. I'm a little scared."

David paused for a moment, his voice turning gentle.

"I'm not done here with Rachel yet. You head to the hospital with the driver. I'll swing by later."

Later.

Six years, and it was always been "later."

My arm was so numb it barely felt like mine, cold sweat running down my face, but I still whispered, "No, it's fine."

David didn't seem to notice how weak my voice was.

"Hey, don't pout, okay? I don't want you showing up tomorrow with swollen eyes.

"Seriously, I want you looking your best when you walk down the aisle.

"Not seeing each other today is for your own good."

He paused, then added softly, "I love you. Don't let your mind run wild."

If this were before, that one sentence would've been enough.

I used to come up with a thousand excuses for him.

Rachel was afraid of the dark.

Rachel was all alone in Southport. She didn't have any family there.

Rachel was my best friend, so David taking care of her was just him being considerate for my sake.

But this time, I just kept watching the blood on my arm.

It seeped out, drop by drop, quietly.

Rachel's voice came through softly.

"Is Claire upset with me? David, you should go. I'll be fine on my own, really."

David's tone turned serious. "Don't act tough. You were just crying because you got scared."

Then he turned to me. "Claire, the driver will be there in ten minutes. Be good, okay?"

He hung up.

Ten minutes later, it wasn't the driver who showed up.

It was David's assistant Alex Carter.

He was holding a man's coat; it looked like David's.

"Miss Evans, Mr. Foster asked me to take you to the hospital," he said.

I glanced at it.

I could still catch a whiff of Rachel's perfume on the cuffs.

Alex explained, "Mr. Foster wanted to come himself, but the wiring at Rachel's place is pretty sketchy, and he was worried she might get hurt."

I nodded. "Let's go."

On the way to the hospital, Alex kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

"Honestly, Miss Evans, Mr. Foster's really worried about you."

I didn't say anything.

My phone buzzed.

In the wedding group chat, Rachel posted a photo.

In the picture, David was up on a ladder, messing with the circuit breaker, his shirt sleeves rolled up.

Rachel captioned it: [I'm so glad David was here. Honestly, I would've been totally lost tonight without him.]

Someone in the group joked. [Hey, Rachel, the groom's got a wedding tomorrow. Don't tire him out tonight!]

Rachel replied right away. [Claire's the real VIP here. I'm just borrowing him for a little while.]

David didn't type anything.

But a minute later, he gave the post a thumbs up.

I set my phone face down on my knee.

The hospital lights were harsh and white.

As the doctor cleaned my wound, I gripped the sheets so hard my knuckles turned white.

Alex was on the phone nearby. "Mr. Foster, Miss Evans's wound is pretty deep. The doctor says she'll need stitches."

I couldn't hear what David said, but Alex shot me a look.

"Mr. Foster wants to know if you can tough it out. He's worried the anesthesia might affect how you look in your wedding dress tomorrow," Alex said.

I couldn't help but laugh.

The doctor stopped for a moment. "What's so funny?"

I said, "Nothing."

Turned out, it didn't matter how much I was hurting. Making sure I looked perfect for the wedding the next day was all that really counted.

But the doctor still gave me a shot of anesthesia.

While the doctor was stitching me up, David sent me messages.

[Tomorrow, I'll give you the grand wedding you deserve.]

[Don't overthink it tonight.]

[Be good.]

I stared at his message, "Be good."

Six years ago, he first used that with me, when I was stuck in the hospital with a fever.

He stayed by my side all night, gently helping me take my medication.

Back then, I really believed David's tenderness belonged only to me.

I finally understood then: he had plenty of kindness to share, but when it came to me, I was always at the end of the line.