Prologue
Sabrina
12:34 a.m., June 30, 2020
The Ready Room–half-lit, half-forgotten–tucked behind the Mercer Rehearsal Dinner venue’s ballroom
The door was open just enough to lie. From the hallway, it could’ve been innocent. Someone stealing a bite of cake. Someone laughing a little too close.
But Sabrina knew that laugh.
Harper’s. Breathy. Intimate. Curled at the edges like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear.
She stepped forward on instinct–because brides are supposed to step into rooms like this. To freshen up. To breathe. To collect themselves before the next round of champagne toasts.
Not that there would be any more of those tonight.
The air was too warm. Wilted peonies sagged in their vases. Eucalyptus leaves had slipped from the floral arch and now perfumed the carpet like bruised apologies. Her fingers tightened around the Dom Perignon bottle, still chilled from the ice bucket. The veil, delicate and whisper-thin, began to slide from her wrist.
The veil slipped like it was trying to warn her. She didn’t catch it. Just shifted the Dom in her grip and stepped further in.
Harper’s laugh came again–low and wrapped in something that didn’t belong in public–and something in Sabrina’s chest cinched tight.
A week ago, Harper had curled up in her bed at 2:00 a.m., drunk on elderflower martinis and post-breakup tears, and swore she’d never believe in men again. “They all want the pretty parts,” she sniffed, “but none of them can handle the wreckage.”
Sabrina had wrapped her in a fleece blanket and fed her dry cereal by the handful.
“You’re not wreckage. You’re a damn cathedral.”
Harper had smiled. Crooked and grateful. “Then don’t let me burn down.”
And now–
Now the following silence was too complete. That should have been the first red flag. She should’ve heard Callie laughing, her aunt over-explaining vegan salad options, Evan pretending to care. But here? Just floral decay and that weird, almost sacred silence–like the kind that falls inside a church right before someone confesses something unforgivable.
The carpet still held the shape of the floral arch. A few eucalyptus sprigs had fallen, bruising dark at the edges. Even the air smelled like something that had been ruined beautifully. Her stomach turned before her head caught up. She told herself it was the champagne. And then she looked up. And the mirror looked back.
In the gold frame, everything sharpened. Evan’s tuxedo shirt hung open. Harper’s bridesmaid dress was rucked up high. Her lipstick was smeared across his jaw like a punchline. His hand braced the mirror. Her hips angled into his like they were already a memory. The world didn’t end. It just… Paused.
Sabrina stood still, suspended in it. Shock didn’t hit like thunder–it crept in slowly, one nerve at a time. First her fingertips. Then her chest. Then the hollow between her ribs. It didn’t feel real. But it looked like it.
Evan looked up. His mouth parted, useless. Harper didn’t turn. Three seconds. That’s all it took. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She just watched her future split down the middle like a cracked wineglass. It couldn’t be real. Maybe she was dreaming. Or disassociating. Or about to pass out from not eating enough cake.
Her brain offered excuses like life rafts: Maybe Harper had fallen. Maybe Evan was helping. Maybe it was a weird bridesmaid emergency. But none of them held. Not when Harper moaned his name like a song she wasn’t supposed to know the lyrics to. The sound scraped something primal.
Sabrina didn’t drop the bottle. Didn’t scream. Didn’t storm in and make a scene. That would’ve meant she was still inside the story. That this was just a betrayal. But this wasn’t a betrayal. It was a rewrite. A full erasure. Everything–every version of her that had imagined this night, this man, this life–was already ash.
Her grip on the Dom tightened. The foil crinkled beneath her fingers, but she didn’t flinch. She couldn’t afford to. Not yet. But for half a second, she wanted to. To launch the bottle straight into the mirror and watch it all shatter–their bodies, their lies, the story they’d hijacked. She pictured it: glass in Evan’s collar, Dom dripping down Harper’s spine, the sound of something breaking loud enough to match what cracked inside her.
Just one swing. One scream. One second of violence to prove she was still real. But no. Sabrina’s grip shifted. Not to throw the bottle. Just to hold something that hadn’t betrayed her yet.
She turned. Her shoulder hit Callie’s chest so hard that the phone nearly flew from her hand. Neither of them said sorry. Place cards scattered across the tile like paper casualties. One stuck to Sabrina’s heel–Table Seven: Groom’s Parents. Callie didn’t pick it up. Just looked at Sabrina’s face–mascara streaked, jaw locked, holding a bottle of Dom like it might start answering questions.
“You okay?” would’ve been insulting. “What happened?” unnecessary.
Callie did what she always did when the world broke open around them.
She anchored. She reached up, gently tucked Sabrina’s hair behind her ear, and pulled a wayward bobby pin from her own pocket. Slid it in like she was patching a leak no one else could see. The gesture nearly did her in. Not the betrayal. Not the mirror. Not even Evan’s face when he realized he was caught. That small, stupid act of care. That’s what cracked the first rib.
“Honeymoon starts early,” she said, voice soft and surgical. “Gate B-12. I’ll get your flight bumped up and handle the mess.” Then: a phone. Keys. No explanations. Just love. And logistics. The Callie Hart brand of triage.
***************************************
She drove without music. Without GPS. Without any real memory of the turns she took. The bottle rolled once in the passenger seat, thudded softly against her purse, and settled. Somewhere between the venue and her apartment, she realized she was still holding her breath.
She exhaled. It didn’t help.
Her apartment parking lot was dark and half-empty. The kind of silence that felt personal. Like even the streetlights knew not to make eye contact. She turned the engine off but stayed in the car, gripping the steering wheel like it could explain something. The veil was somehow in her lap, twisted and creased, like it had crawled there for comfort. She didn’t remember grabbing it.
The heat of her palm had fogged her phone screen. It buzzed once. She didn’t look. It buzzed again. She shouldn’t have looked.
Evan [12:56 a.m.]:
You should still go. I mean… the trip is paid for. You deserve that at least.
She stared at the screen like it might apologize. The audacity of it made her bark a single, humorless laugh. “You deserve it.” Like it was a consolation prize. Like he hadn’t just lit her life on fire and handed her the ashes in a carry-on.
They used to joke about Paris. Not the romantic parts–Sabrina liked the alleys, the cafe chairs with uneven legs, the old man at the corner bar who gave her a free espresso because she spoke bad French with conviction. Evan had kissed that night, one hand cradling the back of her head like she was made of something expensive. “God, Bree. You find the ugliest corners of the world and somehow make them beautiful.”
She had believed him. Not just the words. The look in his eyes. The easy way they fit, like the conversation had never ended, just paused between breaths.
Evan [12:57 a.m.]:
It would be a shame to waste it. The villa. The flights. The wine. You love the ocean.
You. Not we. Not I’m sorry. Not I fucked up. Not I’m trash and I’ll Venmo you the therapy money. She stared at the text until it began to blur. Then she typed:
Sabrina [1:01 a.m.]:
Sure. What’s a honeymoon without a groom?
She stared at that, too. Deleted it. Typed it again. Sent. The read receipt appeared instantly. She didn’t wait for a reply. When it came–
Evan [1:02 a.m.]:
I didn’t mean…
She turned her phone off. Tossed it onto the passenger seat. Tried not to imagine the sound it would make if she rolled down the window and threw it into the parking lot instead. She didn’t cry anymore in the car. Didn’t scream into her purse. Even though she considered it once, or maybe five times.
***************************************
She almost didn’t go. The clock hit 3:00 a.m. and for five thick minutes she sat on the floor next to her suitcase, googling “Can you cancel a honeymoon after your fiancé cheats with your maid of honor?” Google had no answer, but Callie did.
“Board the damn plane, Bree. Or I’m sending your great aunt June to drive you there in a minivan filled with wet Tupperware and unsolicited hymns.”
So she went.
***************************************
She should have been wearing white. Instead, she was barefoot in an airport terminal with espresso breath, an emergency neck pillow that smelled like lavender regret, and a checked bag full of rage, linen, and one illegally packed bottle of Dom Callie insisted she not waste.
The security line was a blur. The TSA agent at Sea-Tac didn’t even blink at her mascara-streaked face. Seattle was built for emotional weather. Couples swarmed the gate in matching outfits. One had Mr./Mrs. shirts. Another clinked champagne flutes from an airport bar that charged $27 for sparkling wine in a plastic glass.
Sabrina looked down at her boarding pass. Lane, S. — Nice, France.
She hated how poetic it sounded. She hated that she noticed. She opened her Notes app by accident. Maybe. Muscle memory was a bitch. There, blinking like it hadn’t aged a day, were the vows.
Evan, you were never the fantasy. You were the hand I reached for when the world felt real. You were the coffee on Sunday mornings, the quiet during storms, the forever I didn’t know I believed in.
Her chest pulled tight. She didn’t cry. She didn’t delete it. She just stared for a few long, sharp breaths. Then she took a screenshot. Just to remember what she almost promised. Her gate had a panoramic window facing east. The sun was just cresting. She tilted her chin toward it like a woman in a war film–one who’s already accepted the bloodshed.
Then came the phone. The photo. No filter. No pose. Just last night’s mascara and this morning’s resolve.
She typed.
Caption:
Honeymoon, rebranded.
Swapped the groom for Dom and the itinerary for whatever-the-hell.
Let’s see what heartbreak looks like on the Riviera.
#UnHoneymoon
#FlightModeActivated
Her thumb hovered. Too much? Not enough? Maybe add a champagne emoji? No. God, no. She stared at the screen. Then at her face. Then hit post. Regret came instantly. Then indifference. Then a faint, burning kind of pride.
Comments (1 min. later):
calliehart
🫡 I salute the petty. And the packing skills. Drink something French and questionable for me.
evan.m
…..
(Edited)
Hope you have a good trip. You deserve it.
the.harper.doyle
💕 So glad you’re taking time for you. 💖🌸 Let’s catch up soon babe!!
aunti_june42
Wait what’s this?? I thought the wedding was SATURDAY!!!
Did they move it??
You look beautiful, sweetheart 💝 call me later!
calliehart (reply to aunti_june42):
They eloped. Very modern. Very French. 🍷
calliehart (reply to harper.doyle):
Delete your keyboard.
sabrinalane
(Replying to no one. Not really.)
✈️ Turbulence ahead. But at least the minibar won’t lie.
***************************************
She tapped the three dots. “Delete post?” blinked on the screen. Her finger hovered. Then clicked cancel. Shoved her phone facedown in the seat pocket. What if she hadn’t opened the door? What if Harper hadn’t laughed? What if Evan had just–just been the man he’d pretended to be?
She reached for her carry-on, blindly digging for a blanket or distraction or… anything. Her fingers closed around a folded square of thick paper–linen stock, her name written in Callie’s unmistakable, sharp script.
Sabrina, it read.
If you’re reading this, you boarded the damn plane.
I’m proud of you. Not for being okay–don’t try to be yet. I’m proud because you didn’t let them keep you small. Go raise hell. Or at least drink something irresponsible.
P.S. Don’t look back. They’re not behind you anymore.
Love you.
- C
The plane shuddered once as it taxied. She folded the note in half. Then again. Then again. Tucked it into the sleeve of her passport like armor. The thoughts came like turbulence. Sharp. Sudden. No warning. She blinked hard and looked out the window. Clouds rolling in, soft and stupid and unaware. She closed her eyes. Swallowed the spiral. Let the plane carry the questions she couldn’t.
The hum of he engines deepened. Her stomach dropped with the takeoff, that strange, weightless pull, like her body hadn’t agreed to leave the ground. Her fingers curled into the armrest. Vinyl. Cool against her palm. Nails still chipped from the trial manicure she’d sworn she’d fix. She hadn’t fixed it.
And as the plane lifted, she made no promises. Not about healing. Not about forgetting. Not about love.
Just this: She would not return a ghost of herself. Not softer. Not smaller. Just real.
