No Place for You at My Wedding

The sea air that night was heavy with champagne bubbles and laughter, the yacht glittering with fairy lights strung across its rails. It was supposed to be a celebration—Evangeline’s birthday, an endless masquerade of music and glass clinks. But joy has a way of souring when the mask slips.

From the upper deck, I saw it. Rowan’s mouth pressed against Evangeline’s, frosting smeared along her cheek like a careless brand, his fingers anchored at her waist as if she belonged there. And beside them, Corvin—Rowan’s brother, the boy I once thought of as my own kin—handed her a towel with indifferent ease, as if betrayal were routine.

Evangeline. The girl who’d braided my hair since childhood. The girl who promised she would never cross such a line. Now she was licking sugar from Rowan’s fingers, unashamed, while he didn’t even startle when he caught sight of me standing there. Not even a flicker.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw the glass in my hand. I simply turned, descended the stairs, and inhaled the dense perfume of the ocean as if it might harden my lungs into stone. Down in the velvet lounge, I reached for my phone.

Because revenge demands composure. And composure is forged, not wept into being.

“Mother,” I said when she picked up, my voice steady, stripped of all softness.

Her reply was immediate. “Marceline. You sound different. Are you finally ready to discuss it?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Father’s old agreement still stands, doesn’t it? Then prepare the documents. The wedding won’t be some gaudy affair—I won’t tolerate cheap spectacle. This isn’t about romance. It’s about winning.”

There was no hesitation on her part. She approved, offered her thoughts, and I cut her short with instructions before ending the call.

The knock came minutes later, light but insistent. The clicking of heels against the stairs gave her away even before she sang through the door.

“Marceline? Are you hiding down here?”

I didn’t answer, but the door creaked open anyway.

Evangeline stepped in as though she owned the place, carrying a Black Forest cake lit with a solitary candle. Her makeup was pristine, though smudges of cream striped her cheek like deliberate war paint. She smiled, wide and sweet.

“Come back upstairs,” she coaxed. “Everyone’s asking for you.”

I didn’t turn. “No. I have no interest.”

Her smile faltered for a second, then reformed into something softer, more fragile. “You dislike me, don’t you? That’s why you keep your distance.”

I finally faced her, arching a brow. “This script again? You’re exhausting, Evangeline.”

She blinked rapidly, lashes heavy with feigned tears. I’d seen her summon those drops countless times, usually with Rowan as her audience.

“Save your little drama,” I said flatly. “I’m not the crowd you’re playing for.”

I pushed past her toward the exit—when suddenly she staggered. The cake slipped, splattering across her silk blouse in a messy explosion of chocolate and cream.

The timing was perfect.

Rowan and Corvin came thundering down the steps as if rehearsed. Their eyes went straight to her, not me.

“Lavi!” Rowan rushed to her side, panic sharpening his voice. “What happened?”

Her bottom lip trembled. “I brought this down for Marceline. Just wanted to share something sweet. But she…” Her voice cracked, delicate as spun glass. “She shoved me.”

I froze. “What?”

Corvin’s face twisted with fury. “She pushed you? Marceline, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t touch her!” My words cut through, but they were deaf ears. “She dropped it herself—you saw nothing, and yet you swallow her lies?”

Rowan still wouldn’t look at me. His hands brushed cream from Evangeline’s shoulder, gentle as if tending to a wound.

“Are you hurt?” he whispered.

She leaned into him, sniffing. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have disturbed her. She hates me now.”

Corvin’s glare could have set me aflame. “You two were practically sisters. And this is how you treat her? Out of jealousy?”

Jealous. The word nearly made me laugh. A bitter sound slipped free. “This is a soap opera now? What’s next—a fake baby or a long-lost twin?”

Rowan finally turned to me, his jaw clenched like iron. “You’re going to apologize.”

I blinked once. “Excuse me?”

“Apologize to her,” he repeated, voice low and unforgiving. “Now.”

I crossed my arms, staring him down. “No.”

His expression darkened into something unrecognizable. “Then forget the marriage. If you don’t apologize by tomorrow, the engagement next month is gone. For good.”

The silence that followed felt like a noose tightening.

Corvin sneered, his voice a hiss. “You’d still consider marrying her? Look at her—this is the real Marceline. If I were you, I’d never waste my time.”

I tilted my head, my voice calm but sharp. “That’s why no one ever has, Corvin.”

The color climbed his neck. Rowan’s fists flexed. And behind them, Evangeline glowed, basking in the chaos she had spun.

I moved toward the railing, ready to vanish into the shadows of the deck.

But Rowan’s hand clamped around my wrist. Before I could react, he shoved.

The sea swallowed me whole.

Salt stung my lungs. Panic choked my throat. I flailed, dragged down by chains of water and fear. They knew I couldn’t swim. They all knew.

Above, her voice pierced the night—too sharp, too practiced. “Marceline! Help her—she can’t swim!”

But it wasn’t terror. It was theater.

“Leave her,” Rowan’s voice boomed above, cold and final. “This is her punishment. Let the ocean teach her.”

My chest burned. My vision blurred. The waves pulled me under.

And then—arms. Strong, unfamiliar, breaking through the current. A voice beside my ear, low and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

Air tore back into my lungs as I surfaced, coughing salt, the stranger dragging me back to life.