Chapter 2

The next morning, the moment I arrived at the office, the receptionist brought over an enormous bouquet.

Ninety-nine Juliet roses—petals impossibly soft, the fragrance so thick it was almost cloying.

The card was in Adrian's handwriting:

Had a last-minute client call last night. Didn't make it to pick you up. Don't be mad—I'll take you to choose a new kitchen this weekend.

I stared at the words choose a new and my fingers stalled.

He knew it bothered me.

If he was willing to change the dimensions back, maybe last night's humiliation still had room for negotiation.

My phone lit up just then—an Instagram push notification for Lily's latest post.

In the photo, she was wearing my custom wedding dress—the one I'd waited eight months for—spinning in front of a bridal studio mirror.

The train pooled across the floor. The waistline had been cinched with clips, and the bodice clearly didn't fit.

The caption was a single line:

Adrian said the waist suits me better and insists I wear it as maid of honor. First time in a dress this beautiful—feels like a dream.

I zoomed in. In the corner of the mirror, Adrian's reflection was visible.

He sat on the studio sofa, head bowed, carefully smoothing the handmade lace of my wedding gown.

Last year, when I'd flown to New York for the fitting, the designer asked what mattered most to me in a wedding dress.

Adrian had wrapped his arms around me from behind and said with a smile:

"Make it one of a kind. My bride shouldn't wear anything anyone else has worn."

Now the one-of-a-kind gown had become something a bridesmaid could borrow.

I called the bridal shop. The manager sounded uncomfortable.

"Ms. Bennett, it was Mr. Cole who brought Ms. Foster in. He said you'd agreed to let the bridesmaid try it on first. He also asked us to take the waist in two inches."

"After the alterations—can it be restored?"

A few seconds of silence on the other end.

"The hand-stitched waist panel has already been taken apart. Even if we restore it, there'll be needle marks."

I looked at the expensive apology card on my desk and slowly folded it in half.

"I don't want the dress anymore. Settle the remaining balance with Mr. Cole and send written confirmation to my email."

After I hung up, I carried the bouquet into the break room and shoved it into the trash can.

The arrangement was too big to fit. I pressed down twice, hard. A thorn pierced the pad of my finger—a tiny bead of blood welled up.

When Adrian gave me flowers for the first time, he'd stripped every thorn by hand.

He said my hands needed to draw, to write analytical reports—they couldn't afford an injury.

The flowers he sent now were still the most expensive kind. He just no longer remembered to remove the thorns.

That afternoon, my real estate agent messaged me.

A buyer was interested in the apartment—willing to pay ten percent above market value, all cash, on the condition that I hand over the keys within three days.

I replied: Agreed.

A month ago, the company's Chicago division had extended me an offer—Senior Project Director.

I'd turned it down. The wedding was approaching, and Adrian didn't like long distance.

The hiring manager had reached out again yesterday. The position was still open.

I accepted.

When I left work that evening, Adrian's black Mercedes GLS was parked outside the building.

He saw me come out and pulled open the passenger door.

"What happened to your hand?"

He took my wrist, his thumb carefully avoiding the small wound.

"Your flowers did it."

Adrian's expression darkened.

"The florist is getting sloppier by the day. I'll have my assistant switch to a different one."

I withdrew my hand.

"Why did you let Lily wear my wedding dress?"

"She's never worn a wedding gown. She was curious and wanted to try it on."

"You authorized them to take apart the waist panel."

"Claire."

Adrian shielded me from a colleague walking past, his voice kept deliberately low.

"She's the maid of honor—she'd have to try on a dress sooner or later. Yours was loose in the waist anyway; it needed adjusting before the ceremony."

"Adjusted to her measurements?"

"We'll alter it back before the wedding."

He said it so naturally—as though fabric that had been ripped open and re-sewn, and a position that had been handed away again and again, could simply be restored to their original state.

I looked at him.

"Change the kitchen back to my dimensions. Have a new dress made from scratch. And Lily is not the maid of honor."

Adrian was quiet for a few seconds.

"The kitchen, fine. The dress, fine—I'll commission a new one."

He reached past me and held the car door open.

"As for Lily—she's already told friends and family she's the maid of honor. Replacing her now would humiliate her."

He was willing to spend tens of thousands redoing the cabinetry. Willing to pay for an entirely new gown.

The only thing he wouldn't do was take away a role that had never been hers to begin with.

"There's a get-together tonight."

Adrian rested his hand on the door, preventing me from closing it.

"Friends from the usual circle. I've already told them—no one is to joke about the last couple of days. They're only to toast you, the bride-to-be."

"Bride-to-be?"

"Of course."

He leaned in to fasten my seatbelt, his familiar scent close enough to feel.

"Our wedding isn't going to change."

I looked at the face in front of me and didn't tell him.

That wedding dress was never going to be altered back.

Neither was the apartment.