CLARA O'DONNELL POV:
The fifth wedding, I remembered, had been called off because Kamala had a "premonition" of a plane crash. Justice, ever the martyr, spent three days on the phone with her, talking her down, while I waited, dresses already packed for our honeymoon. His father, Cletus, had clapped me on the shoulder, his voice dripping with condescension. "That's the Keith way, dear. Loyalty above all. A new-money girl like you wouldn't understand."
He' d come back, of course. Full of apologies and promises. "It won't happen again, Clara. I swear. This is the last time."
I believed him. Like I always did.
The tenth time, his cousin, seeing Justice rush out again during the rehearsal dinner, had joked, "Maybe you should just marry them both, Justice! Save us all the trouble!" Justice just laughed, a hollow sound, and kept walking.
That night, I decided I was tired of waiting. Tired of hoping. Tired of being the consolation prize. The understanding fiancée. The second choice.
"The wedding is off," I announced, my voice clear and steady, cutting through the stunned silence.
Cletus Keith, usually so composed, choked on his champagne. Justice's mother gasped, clutching her pearls. Even the minister looked shell-shocked.
"Now, now, Clara," the minister began, "let's not be hasty. Emotions are running high. Perhaps a moment of prayer..."
"There's nothing to pray for," I interrupted, my voice flat. "The wedding is cancelled. Permanently."
Cletus slammed his glass down. "Clara, you will not do this! This merger, this alliance... it's too important!" His eyes, usually cold, burned with a furious threat. "You will regret this."
"Regret what, Cletus?" I asked, a dangerous calm settling over me. "Living a life where I'm not constantly humiliated? Where my worth isn't dictated by your son's inexplicable devotion to another woman?"
I reached up, my fingers finding the delicate, antique tiara Cletus had insisted I wear. A Keith family heirloom, passed down through generations. A symbol of their old-money power, and my supposed assimilation into it.
"Clara, don't you dare," Cletus hissed, lunging forward.
I pulled it off. The diamonds glittered, mocking me, in my trembling hand. Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, I brought it down against the edge of the altar.
The crystal shattered, a sharp, violent sound that pierced the hushed chapel. Diamonds, pearls, and gold fragments scattered across the marble floor like fallen stars. The guests gasped, a collective intake of breath.
For the first time in years, I felt a strange lightness, a sense of liberation. I turned, my ruined gown rustling around me, and walked out of the chapel.
Back in the dressing room, the ornate mirror reflected a stranger. My face was streaked with tears, mascara running down my cheeks, but there was a new glint in my eyes. A sharpness. A resolve. I began to peel off the layers of silk and lace, each movement a shedding of the past.
My phone rang. Justice.
I almost didn't answer. But a perverse curiosity, a need for finality, made me swipe. "Hello?"
"Clara, darling, where are you? Kamala's just told me... I'm so sorry, love. You know how she gets." His voice was muffled, and in the background, a light, girlish giggle. Kamala. Always Kamala.
A hollow laugh escaped my lips. "Oh, I know how she gets, Justice. And it seems she's getting quite a kick out of this, isn't she?"
He ignored my sarcasm. "I'll make it up to you. I promise. Just come back. We can still salvage this."
"Salvage what?" I asked, my voice flat. "The shattered pieces of my dignity? The remains of a dream you never truly shared?"
"The baby, Clara," he said, his voice suddenly urgent. "Is the baby okay? You looked… upset."
"The baby is fine," I said, my hand instinctively caressing my still-flat stomach. A secret, precious burden.
"Good. Good. So, can you come back? We need to talk. This whole thing is ridiculous."
"Is it?" I paused, a thought forming, cold and precise. "Is Kamala enjoying her birthday party, Justice?"
A beat of silence. "How did you... are you jealous, Clara?" His tone was almost amused.
I hung up.
My fingers, no longer trembling, reached for my purse. I pulled out my passport and a plane ticket. Silicon Valley. Home.
And next to it, tucked away, an invitation. A discreet card from a prestigious medical clinic. The final step. The one that would truly make me free.
