Chapter 2

Three days after I got back to the city, I went to the wedding planning company.

The receptionist recognized me and immediately walked over with a smile.

"Ms. Grace, you're here! Ms. Claire was in this morning—she already signed off on the final proof of the invitations."

I stopped.

"What final proof?"

"The invitations." She pulled out a printed sample and handed it to me. "Ms. Claire said you gave her full authority, so we had her sign the approval."

I took the invitation.

The cover font had been changed, sure enough.

Beneath the gold-foil names, there was a set of initials.

E.C.

E for Ethan.

But my name is Grace.

"The C stands for...?"

The receptionist blinked, then flipped through the notes.

"Oh—Ms. Claire said the bride's name could be written as Claire. More international, more elegant."

Claire.

I stared at those two letters and suddenly laughed.

"Cancel the wedding."

The receptionist went blank.

"Ms. Grace, what did you say?"

"Terminate the contract. Keep the deposit. I'll pay the cancellation fee."

I placed my bank card on the counter.

She panicked and made three phone calls in a row.

The planner rushed over and grabbed my hand. "Ms. Grace, did you and Mr. Carter have a fight? Why don't you take some time to think it over? Ms. Claire—"

"It has nothing to do with her."

I signed the papers and stood up.

As I turned, Claire walked through the door.

She wore a white sundress and carried the bag Ethan had bought her last month on her arm.

She froze when she saw me, then smiled and walked over.

"Grace! You're here too? I was just about to talk to you about the color for the bridesmaid dresses."

"No need. Work it out with the planner."

I stepped around her and headed for the exit.

She caught up from behind and grabbed my wrist.

"Grace, are you upset?"

"Is it because I changed the dessert last time? I really didn't mean to—I just thought cranberry fit the overall color palette better."

I looked at her hand.

Fair, nails filed smooth, painted a pale pink.

I suddenly thought of my grandmother's hands—joints swollen and twisted, yet still gripping that envelope with all her remaining strength.

"Claire."

I pulled my wrist free.

"The lilac honey flavor was my choice. Because my grandmother loved it."

Her expression stiffened for an instant. Then quickly returned to that look of wounded innocence.

"I didn't know. Grace, why didn't you say something sooner? If you'd told me, I definitely wouldn't have changed it."

Seven years.

Every single time: "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

When I did speak up, she pretended not to hear. When I didn't, she took it as consent.

"It's fine."

I smiled.

"You chose well. I'm heading out."

I walked through the doors and the sunlight hit me so hard I felt dizzy.

My stomach started hurting again. A dull ache, wave after wave—it had been getting more frequent over the past three months.

I leaned against a pillar on the sidewalk, fished the painkillers from my bag, and dry-swallowed two.

Three months ago, the day I got my diagnosis, I sat in the hallway outside the oncology department and called Ethan.

It took seven calls before he picked up.

The background noise was loud. A woman was crying.

He said, "Grace, Claire's having another episode. I can't leave. Let's talk tonight."

I said, "Ethan, my test results came back today. The doctor said—"

He cut me off. "Hold on. Claire, don't cry, I'm here."

"Grace, what were you saying? Bad signal—let's talk when I'm home."

He hung up.

That night, he came home exhausted and fell asleep on the couch.

His phone sat face-up on the coffee table. The screen lit up.

A message from Claire.

"Ethan, thank you for being with me today. You must be so tired. Get some sleep. Goodnight."

Followed by a kiss emoji.

I stood behind him and stared at that message for a long time.

Then I walked into the study, folded the diagnosis report, and slipped it between the pages of my journal.

I never brought it up again.