Isolde’s message came first.
Corinne, I’m sorry. The shop already admitted fault. You shouldn’t have been blamed for the dress. Please don’t dwell on it.
I read it once. Then again. Did she really mean that? Or was it just a tidy bandage over the wound she’d helped tear open? A gentle excuse to smudge away the memory of Alaric shoving me aside while everyone else looked away?
Before I could decide, another notification appeared.
Alaric: I left the black card on the counter. Get yourself something nice while I’m gone this week.
A hollow laugh almost escaped my lips.
That was his pattern. Rage, accusations, cruelty—and then the peace offering. A credit card. A shiny distraction. A bribe dressed up as generosity. As if a new handbag could erase his words, as if spending his money was an apology. I could practically hear him: Here. Buy yourself something. Now smile like a good girl.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I stared at their names—Isolde and Alaric—and with one sharp, decisive motion, deleted both threads and blocked them.
Later, I slipped into the world outside. I chose the dress Alaric once dismissed as “too loud” and the lipstick he mocked for making me look “older.” I wore them both. Boldly.
I had my own small stash of money, savings he’d never bothered to notice. I tucked my bag under my arm and walked into the city—not with an errand, but with purpose, even if that purpose was simply to breathe freely.
There was a café I’d long admired from afar. Every time I hinted at wanting to go, Alaric cut me down. Cake? Again? You’ve had enough, he’d say with that cruel smirk I was expected to laugh at.
Yet I remembered watching him offer the same treat to Isolde once, all smiles and tenderness. I had kept quiet then.
But not today.
Today, I stepped inside, ordered the most extravagant cake on the menu—gold leaf, jewel-like berries—and sat by the window. One bite, and the sweetness filled my mouth.
It was light. It was rich. It was mine.
As I savored it, I opened my phone to scroll. That’s when I saw it: Cressida’s post. She had been a close friend—or so I thought. I tapped play.
The screen lit up with the cruise. The wedding.
Alaric in a sharp suit. Isolde radiant in white. My son clapping, my family beaming, the whole room celebrating.
All of them smiling as if I had never existed.
They knew. Every one of them knew.
The camera panned to champagne flutes raised, laughter echoing. Alaric kissed Isolde’s forehead. My father stood proudly at their side. And me? I was the shadow erased from the frame.
The fork slipped from my fingers. My hands shook.
My marriage had never been sacred. It was never a vow—it was paperwork. A placeholder. A favor until the real bride arrived.
I wiped my tears, set my jaw, and stood.
No one had ever chosen me. Not a single soul in that video remembered who I was. But today, I would choose myself.
Across the street stood a boutique I’d never dared enter, the kind of place I thought was for other women. But today, I walked in.
“Good afternoon,” a young clerk greeted. “Looking for anything in particular, ma’am?”
“Yes,” I said, steady. “A wedding dress.”
Her brows arched. “Yours?”
“Yes.” My voice was firm. “Mine.”
She smiled and led me through rows of silk and lace. I tried on gown after gown, until I found it—the one. Not flashy, not desperate for attention. Just… me.
In the mirror, I didn’t see a discarded wife. I didn’t see a maid.
I saw someone whole.
I asked her to take my picture. When I held the print in my hands, I smiled. Not for anyone else—for myself.
I bought the dress in cash.
Stepping out of the shop, sunlight spilling over me, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I should have called long ago.
It rang once. Twice.
I drew in a breath.
“Hello,” I said. “I’d like to file for divorce.”
And with that, I finally chose me.
