Part 1
Part 1 · 3 min read ·
On the morning I was supposed to marry Ethan Hawthorne, my fiancé gave my bridal limousine to his female best friend, watched her climb inside wearing my reception dress, and told me not to make a scene.
I stood on a Boston sidewalk in my wedding gown, holding the front of my dress against the cold October wind, while the man who had promised to spend his life protecting me arranged another woman’s skirt.
For several seconds, I couldn’t understand what I was seeing.
The white limousine from the Hawthorne Hotel waited at the curb, its polished surface decorated with white roses and pale silk ribbons.
The driver had arrived early, just as I had requested, because I wanted a few photographs before leaving for the hotel.
Everything had been arranged months in advance.
The flowers, the ribbons, the champagne, even the small embroidered initials on the passenger seats.
It was supposed to be my morning.
Instead, Vanessa Cole was sitting inside my bridal limousine.
And she was wearing my ivory reception dress.
I recognized every detail.
The delicate pearl buttons down the back, the fitted waist, the soft satin fabric, and the small embroidered flowers along the hem.
I had spent six months choosing that dress.
I had imagined changing into it after dinner, taking off my heavy wedding gown, and dancing with Ethan until midnight.
Two weeks earlier, Vanessa had asked to try it on.
I had politely refused.
She had laughed and told me I was being possessive.
Ethan had later accused me of being insecure about their friendship.
Now she was wearing it.
And Ethan was standing beside her, carefully arranging the fabric so it wouldn’t wrinkle.
“Wait.”
His voice interrupted my thoughts.
I looked at him.
He wore his charcoal wedding suit, the one I had helped him choose, and his silver cuff links caught the morning light.
He looked handsome.
He also looked completely unconcerned.
“Let Vanessa take this car.”
I blinked.
“What?”
He gestured toward the limousine.
“She wants to film a few clips before the ceremony.”
I looked at Vanessa.
She was holding her phone up, recording herself against the white leather interior.
Refresh.
Scroll.
Refresh again.
She seemed more interested in the number of people watching her video than in the fact that she was sitting in my wedding transportation.
“Ethan, that’s our bridal car.”
“I know.”
“Then why is she in it?”
He sighed.
“I booked another car for you.”
He pointed toward a black sedan parked farther down the street.
It was clean, ordinary, and completely undecorated.
No flowers.
No ribbons.
No indication that the woman climbing into it was supposed to be the bride.
I stared at him.
“You’re giving her the bridal limousine and putting me in that?”
“It’s just a car, Clare.”
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny, but because I suddenly realized how many times I had heard those exact words.
It was just a dress.
It was just dinner.
It was just a weekend.
It was just Vanessa.
For three years, every boundary I tried to establish had been reduced to something small and unreasonable.
Vanessa had known Ethan since childhood.
She had grown up with him, attended the same schools, and remained his closest friend long after their lives took different directions.
When I first met her, I thought she was charming.
She was confident, funny, and unusually comfortable around Ethan.
I had no reason to dislike her.
Then she began appearing everywhere.
She attended our first anniversary dinner because Ethan said she was having a difficult week.
She joined our vacation because she had always wanted to visit the same coastal town.
She came to my dress fitting because Ethan insisted she had an excellent eye for fashion.