The rejection was so complete it felt surgical.
“Maybe next time,” he said, raising his voice just enough to carry to the front rows, “you’ll learn to keep to time.”
A ripple of murmurs followed—soft, ugly sounds I felt more than heard. I straightened instinctively, spine stiff, chin lifting despite the tremor running through me.
Harris didn’t wait for a response.
He turned sharply on his heel, tuxedo jacket flaring behind him like a cape, and strode down the aisle as if this were his stage and we were all just props.
Almost instantly, his bodyguards materialized from the shadows between the pews—four of them, broad and expressionless in dark suits, earpieces gleaming. They moved in practiced formation, flanking him without a word.
Heat crawled up my neck, burned behind my eyes.
I refused to cry.
Not here. Not in front of them. Not after everything.
Then I saw movement.
The little boy I had saved stepped out from the front pew.
Alone.
His small sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished wood as he walked up the aisle. Each step was hesitant butdetermined, like he’d made a decision and was seeing it through no matter how scared he was. His face was pale, eyes enormous, shining with something deeper than fear.
Guilt.
As though he believed—somehow—that this entire disaster was his fault.
My heart twisted painfully in my chest.
When he reached the bottom step of the altar, he stopped and looked up at me. For a moment, he just stood there, hands clenched at his sides, swallowing hard. Then he lifted both hands.
His fingers moved with careful, deliberate grace.
“I’m so sorry,” he signed.
My breath caught.
“Don’t worry, big aunt. I’ll get you a new groom.”
A sound tore out of me before I could stop it—a startled, broken laugh that cracked halfway through and dissolved into a sob.
I pressed my lips together hard, trying to contain it.
I understood sign language fluently; I’d learned it in the long, lonely months, when doctors told me my hearing would never return and my voice would always be this painful rasp. When the world went silent, my hands had learned to speak instead.
I knelt slowly in front of him, ignoring the sharp stab in my ribs and the way my knees protested against the hard floor. The room seemed to fade away—the stares, the whispers, the chapel itself—until it was just the two of us.
I signed back, keeping my movements gentle and sure.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You did nothing wrong.”
His shoulders sagged with visible relief. He nodded once, solemn as a judge delivering a verdict, then stepped forward and wrapped his tiny fingers around my index finger.
The contact was small, fragile—and impossibly grounding.
An anchor.
