Chapter 1Already Married On Your Wedding Day

My friend Jessica was getting married over Memorial Day weekend, and our group chat was buzzing with frantic discussions about who would be in the bridal party.

Austin’s childhood best friend, Amber, suddenly dropped a message into the chat.

[Why don't we have Clara do it? She's got plenty of experience.]

Fiona, a close friend of mine, immediately tried to smooth things over: [Clara’s already been a bridesmaid three times. You know the old saying—four times is bad luck.]

But Amber wouldn't let it go.

[Bad luck? Come on. Clara went to an Ivy League school, surely she doesn't actually believe in silly superstitions like that?]

[Or is she just insecure because she knows Austin is never actually going to put a ring on her finger?]

Just as Fiona was about to fire back at Amber’s passive-aggressive jab, Austin’s avatar popped up in the thread.

[It’s just a bridesmaid gig, Clara. Don't be so dramatic. Just do it.]

The group chat went dead silent.

I stared at the screen, a dry laugh escaping my lips. I picked up my phone and typed a quick reply.

[Sorry, but it’s really not convenient for me.]

Because my own wedding was also scheduled for Memorial Day weekend.

The only difference was, the groom wasn't Austin.

* * *

The moment my message sent, the group chat froze for a solid ten seconds.

Then, Austin’s name flashed across my screen.

I didn't even blink. I muted the ringer, flipped the phone face down on the corner of my desk, and went back to work.

My current project was in its final, most critical phase. Since I was getting married over the holiday weekend and taking a two-week honeymoon right after, I had to ensure every single file and client handoff was completed beforehand.

I had no intention of wasting my energy arguing with Austin over the same tired excuses we’d exhausted a hundred times before. Finishing this final spreadsheet was a far better use of my time.

The phone buzzed, went silent, and buzzed again.

Then came the flood of text messages.

What is your problem?

Are you seriously trying to humiliate me in front of everyone, Clara?

I told you, Amber just speaks without thinking. She didn't mean anything by it.

Answer your phone.

I didn't reply.

By the time the clock in the corner of my laptop screen ticked to 11:40 PM, I finally hit send on the last transition document to my colleague.

I shut down the computer, packed my bag, and headed home.

When I unlocked the front door, I was surprised to see the living room lights shining brightly.

My hand paused on the doorknob.

The faint, unmistakable scent of expensive cologne, sweet perfume, and whiskey hung in the air. A pair of men's leather dress shoes lay scattered sloppily across the entryway.

Austin was actually home.

Three months ago, after a screaming match that shattered whatever peace we had left, he had slammed the door and walked out.

We hadn't spoken a single word since.

In the beginning, I used to sit up waiting for his texts. I waited for him to swallow his pride, to come back with a peace-offering latte or a box of those expensive pastries he knew I loved, standing at the door pretending he’d just "happened to be in the neighborhood."

But this time, he never did.

He seemed determined to make me break first. He ignored my messages, let my calls go to voicemail, and refused to step foot in the apartment.

Over those silent weeks, the quiet realization settled in: we were over.

I stood in the entryway for a brief moment. To my surprise, my heart didn't race, and my stomach didn't knot up. I simply slipped off my shoes, walked past the living room, and went straight to the bedroom as if the house were empty.

His return didn't shift my gravity anymore.

Pushing the bedroom door half-open, I dragged my suitcase out of the closet, laid it flat on the floor, and began to pack.

My marriage license, my travel documents, summer dresses, toiletries, my honeymoon itinerary—I folded and organized each item methodically.

Halfway through, a sudden warmth enveloped me from behind.

Austin wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin heavily on my shoulder. His breath was hot, smelling faintly of alcohol, his voice thicker and lower than usual. "Clara."

My hands froze over a silk blouse.

"Still mad at me?"

He held me tightly, as if terrified I would slip away the moment he loosened his grip. He was drunk, his words slurred with a needy, familiar petulance. It was the same old Austin—proud, stubborn, and entirely convinced he could make months of neglect vanish with a little charm.

"Come on, babe, let's stop this," he muttered, pressing his face against my cheek in a mock-pout. "I'm home now."

I placed the blouse into the suitcase and said quietly, "Let go of me."

"No," he mumbled, tightening his arms. "If I let go, you'll just shut me out again."

A wave of dark amusement washed over me.

The man who hadn't stepped foot in our home for three months was acting like he was the one who had been wronged.

"Clara," he softened his tone, coaxing me. "I won't lose my temper anymore, okay? And you don't have to freeze me out. You know what Amber is like—she’s got no filter. You've known her for years. Why do you let her get under your skin?"

He paused, as if realizing that wasn't enough, and added, "I'll put her in her place. I promise."

I remained silent.

Taking my silence as a green light, he kept pushing.

"And about my mom... just give me a little more time. She just has the wrong impression of you right now. Once I talk her round and she finally accepts you, we’ll have the most beautiful, lavish wedding you could ever dream of."

With that, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, square black velvet box.