Chapter 4 of When My Groom’s Mistress Wore a Wedding Dress

Murphy knocked at seven. Three sharp raps like we'd rehearsed. I opened the door in my robe and bare feet. She stood there with my go bag over one shoulder and a bottle of champagne in her hand.

"Breakfast," she said.

She set the bag on the bed. Popped the cork. Poured two glasses into hotel water cups.

"To bad decisions," she said.

"To necessary ones," I corrected.

We drank.

She pulled the transmitter from her coat pocket. Small. Black. The size of a lipstick. She turned it over in her palm like she was checking the weight.

"You don't have to do this," she said quietly.

I met her eyes in the mirror. "I know. That's why I'm going to."

She nodded once. Set the transmitter on the vanity.

Then she unzipped the garment bag.

The dress was white. Lace and silk and tulle that caught the morning light. It cost more than my first car. I had chosen it because Mrs. Sullivan said it was appropriate. Because Jace had smiled when I showed him the sketch. Because I had wanted, once, to be the kind of woman who wore a dress like this and meant it.

Murphy held it open. I stepped in. She pulled the zipper up slowly. Adjusted the shoulders. Smoothed the fabric at my waist.

In the mirror, I looked like a bride. Hair pinned. Makeup perfect. A woman about to marry the man she loved.

I felt nothing.

Murphy tucked the transmitter into the bouquet's stem wrap. White roses and peonies. It disappeared beneath the ribbon.

"Phone's paired," she said. "Press play when you're ready. That's it."

I picked up the bouquet. The flowers smelled like nothing. Like they'd been cut too early and kept too cold.

Murphy stood behind me. Our eyes met in the mirror.

"Saph."

"I'm okay."

"I know you are. That's what scares him."

She kissed my cheek. Left a lipstick mark she didn't wipe away. Then she picked up the champagne bottle and walked out.

I stood alone in a white dress in a hotel room that cost more per night than most people made in a week.

I looked at myself one last time.

Then I walked out.

***

The Plaza ballroom smelled like lilies and old money. Three hundred guests in seats that cost a thousand dollars to rent. Chandeliers that threw light like diamonds. A string quartet playing something soft and classical that I had never chosen.

I stood in the vestibule with my father's arm looped through mine. He was saying something about how proud he was. How beautiful I looked. How this was the beginning of something wonderful.

I wasn't listening.

The doors opened.

The music changed. Pachelbel. Canon in D. The song every bride walks to when she can't think of anything better.

I took one step forward.

Then I heard it.

Gasps. Low. Spreading like a wave from the front of the room to the back.

I looked up.

Christina stood at the end of the aisle. White dress. Beaded bodice. Lace sleeves. Almost identical to mine. She held no bouquet. She wasn't part of the processional. She had simply walked in and positioned herself three rows from the altar where everyone could see her.

She was smiling.

The whispers started. Heads turned. Someone's aunt clutched her pearls. Mrs. Sullivan's face went white. Then red. Then something harder.

At the altar, Jace froze.

I watched him. Watched the panic flicker across his face. Watched him look at Christina. Then at his mother. Then at me.

He did not ask her to leave.

He did not move toward her.

He did not look at me to check if I was all right.

He simply stood there. Trapped between two women in white dresses. Waiting for someone else to fix it.

I felt something click into place. Final. Clean. Like a lock turning.

I adjusted my grip on the bouquet.

Then I walked.

My father's arm tightened on mine. "Sapphire—"