The Hamptons estate belonged to Marcus Hale — all white columns and floor-to-ceiling windows that made you feel like you were standing inside a postcard. I knew the house. We'd been to parties here, charity events, summer gatherings where I'd spent hours standing next to Karson, smiling at the right moments and never making a scene. Today, though, it felt different. Today, I was the scene.
Cataleya had arranged everything with the precision of a woman who'd been planning this moment for months. The fitting room was set up in the main living area — white couches, crystal stemware displayed on a glass table, champagne chilling in silver buckets. She'd positioned me carefully, I realized too late: seated on a low stool beside the glass display, with perfect sightlines for everyone in the room.
'It's just us girls,' she said, her voice warm as honey. 'I want this to be special.'
There were six bridesmaids, all friends of Cataleya I'd never met. They fluttered around her like birds, adjusting the sample gown, cooing over the beadwork. I sat quietly, watching. My dress — the one I'd worn to dinner with Karson just days ago — felt wrong now. Too simple. Too plain. I pressed my thumb against my wrist and held it there.
Karson arrived with Marcus and the Whitfield brothers trailing behind him. He didn't look at me. He poured himself champagne and stood near Cataleya, his hand resting on the small of her back. She leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
'Maid of honor,' Marcus said, looking at me with the kind of smile that doesn't reach the eyes. 'How's it feel to be on the wrong side of the wedding dress, Jovie?'
No one answered him. No one defended me. The room went quiet for a beat, and then Cataleya's laugh cut through it, bright and musical.
'Oh, Marcus,' she said, 'be nice. Jovie's just doing her part.'
I looked at her then. Really looked. She was wearing a sample gown — ivory silk with delicate lace overlay. Her dark hair was pulled back, and she'd done her makeup to look like she was glowing from within. She looked beautiful. She looked like she belonged in this life that had been built on the ruins of mine.
She moved toward me, a glass of red wine in her hand. Her steps were careful, deliberate. I watched her come, and for a moment — just a moment — I thought I saw something flicker in her eyes. Something that wasn't warmth or generosity or even triumph.
Something that looked like calculation.
'Jovie,' she said, her voice soft. 'I just want you to know how much this means to me. Having you here, being part of this...' She stumbled. Just a little. Just enough.
The wine hit my dress like a slap. The cold liquid soaked through the fabric instantly, spreading across my lap and down my legs. I gasped, more from surprise than pain, and stood up quickly.
'Oh my God,' Cataleya said. Her voice cracked. Her eyes filled with tears. 'Oh my God, Jovie, I'm so sorry—'
She turned to Karson, and in one fluid motion, she collapsed against his chest. 'She pushed me,' she whispered, her voice breaking. 'She lunged at me, and I—I lost my balance.'
I stood there, wine dripping down my ruined dress, and stared at her. At him. Waiting for Karson to ask a question. To look at me. To do anything but stand there, holding the woman who had just destroyed my dress and my dignity in the same calculated move.
He didn't ask questions.
He shoved me. Hard.
I flew backward, my hip catching the edge of the glass display table. The crystal stemware went first — shattering against the marble floor in a spray of glittering shards. Then I hit the floor, my arm and temple connecting with the broken glass. I felt the sharp sting, the warm trickle of blood.
'Jesus Christ, Jovie,' Karson said, but he was looking at Cataleya, checking her for injuries, making sure she was okay.
Marcus laughed. It started low and built, filling the room with his amusement. 'Well,' he said, pulling out his phone, 'this is definitely going on Instagram.'
The Whitfield brothers moved toward me. One of them knelt down, his hand reaching for my dress. 'Let's get a better look at the damage,' he said, his fingers working at the fabric.
I didn't fight them. I didn't scream. I lay there among the broken glass, and as they tore at my dress and filmed me with their phones, I pulled out my own phone with my uninjured hand.
My thumb hovered over a contact I hadn't touched in seven years. A number I'd kept but never called, because calling it would mean admitting that the safe choice had never been safe at all.
I pressed send.