Fran laughs. I nod. Someone congratulates us on our upcoming wedding. I don’t remember who.
My vision tunnels. My body moves on instinct.
Her hand on my arm.
Her perfume.
Her father’s eyes on us like a brand.
The haze thickens—champagne, duty, expectation.
One kiss. Another. I kiss her because someone will notice if I don’t. Desire doesn’t course through me. Itclaws, feral and wrong, because every touch I give Fran feels like a betrayal to someone who doesn’t even belong to me.
Fran pulls me outside. I follow. Not because I want to. But because I can feel the walls of my life closing in.
The limo door shuts. I take her in the limo, fueled by something beyond my control. Later, at her house, she kisses me again I let her. Just as I let her take me to bed and climb on top of me.
And somewhere I realize there is no turning back.
I have doomed myself with that decision. And I might have doomed Miss Miller, too.
22
Birdie
He doesn’t come home.
Not that night.
Not the next morning.
Not even by the time the sun starts bleeding into the evening sky.
I sit on the couch like a fool, clutching my phone, checking every few minutes as if maybe I missed a text. A call. Anything. But there’s nothing.
By the time I open social media, I already know. But seeing it—God, seeing it—is so much worse. Photos from the gala last night are everywhere. Lorenzo in a sharp tuxedo. Francesca in shimmering red. A power couple, the captions call them. Effortless. Elegant. Magnetic.
And they are.
He’s tall and commanding, the perfect portrait of control. She’s poised and beautiful, every inch the woman a man like Lorenzo is supposed to marry.
I scroll and scroll, unable to stop. One photo after another. Her hand on his arm. His lips near her ear. The press eats it up while I want to throw my phone across the room.
And the worst part? I can see it. I can see what everyone else sees. They belong. At least on paper. In pixels. In legacy. They look like they were born to be next to each other. Born to rule.
And me?
I’m the stupid girl in his bed. Wait. Not even in his bed, which might make it worse. Just the one who believed the whispers in the dark. The one who said okay when he made promises he never should’ve offered.
Iknewhe was engaged. I knew it from the beginning. And still, I listened. Still, I wanted him. I let myself fold into his hands like I was someone he could keep.
I made myself the other woman.
Worse, I made myself believe I was something I never was. Important. I let myself hope. God, I let myself hope.
And now? And now look at me.
I’m standing in the wreckage of my own choices, staring at the truth I tried so hard not to see.
