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CHAPTER ONE

EMILY

Today is the big day. Today Harry and I finally get hitched.

I can’t contain the butterflies in my stomach. This has been my dream since I was a little girl: I’ve been planning this day for as long as I can remember. It was my obsession with weddings that led me to my career as a wedding planner. Now, having organised and executed countless dream days for clients, it’s my turn to be the star of the show, my turn to have the perfect day.

“Just look at your smile,” Grace says, fastening my delicate pearl necklace. “You don’t even look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” I smile at my bridesmaid in the mirror. “Just excited.” With every little detail of the day already planned and mapped out, there’s nothing to do now but enjoy it.

The click of a camera captures the two of us together: Grace, a few inches taller than me, with her black spiral curls to my straight brunette bob, and her dark-brown skin to my fair skin. Her emerald dress hugs her natural curves, while my lace A-line dress, beautiful and embarrassingly expensive, flatters my petite figure.

I reach for Grace’s hand and squeeze it.

“It’s going to be an emotional day,” she warns, “but I’m here for you every step of the way. And remember, if ever you feel overwhelmed, focus on your breathing, just like we do at yoga.”

My dad—my rock—passed away four years ago, and I lost my mother when I was a toddler. An only child, I’ll be walking down the aisle by myself, but Grace will be standing nearby when I make my vows. Besides, today I will not only be gaining a husband but a whole new family. Harry still has his mother and his father, plus a brother and a sister-in-law and a three-year-old niece. There are aunts, uncles, and cousins too. Later, when my name changes from Emily Thomas to Emily Cooper, they’ll all become my family as well.

“Now, are you willing to give me a rough idea of the budget you and Harry set for today?” Stephanie asks. A journalist, she’s here to cover the nuptials.

I pitched her the story idea of a successful London wedding planner finally getting her own dream day. It’s a clever piece of marketing for my wedding-planning business, but I’m also keen for the biggest day of my life to be documented and put on record, to have a magazine article I can look back on in years to come.

“Oh, too much,” I say with an embarrassed smile. “Being in the business, I’ve got connections, of course. I also know what to spend money on and where it can be saved, but it still all adds up. Harry is a lawyer and has a good salary, and . . . well, it’s our special day, isn’t it? I just want everything to be perfect. And I truly believe that, when it comes to weddings, you get what you pay for.”

Stephanie flashes a smile my way, although I’m not convinced it’s sincere. I can’t hide from her, though, that today is going to be a lavish affair. The central London hotel in which I’m getting ready and where, soon, the wedding will take place is a grand venue. It likely cost more to hire than most of her readers set aside for their entire day.

My phone buzzes. “Oh, excuse me.” I pick it up and smile at the name on the screen. “Harry! We agreed not to see or speak to each other until the ceremony. What’s wrong? Are you already missing me?”

The camera clicks, the photographer capturing this last conversation between Harry and I before we exchange our vows.

At first, I’m sure I mishear him. “What?” My smile falters.

Click! goes the camera.

Harry says it again—so blunt, so emotionless—and that’s when his words hit me like a blow to the stomach. I stumble, reaching out to grab Grace, who supports me, keeping me on my feet.

Click!

“What do you mean you can’t go through with it?”

* * *

“Emily!” Grace calls. “Emily, stop!”

But I don’t stop. I run. And run. Out of the hotel and along packed London streets. People stare and gasp, not used to seeing a sobbing bride in full dress and make-up, racing in bare feet, her train billowing behind her. Some point me out to their friends. Others stand by to make room for me, snapping photos.

I should be horrified by this attention—I am horrified—but I can’t stop running. This must be the fight-or-flight response, that instinctive reaction to situations of extreme danger or stress. Apparently, I’m not staying at the hotel to fight and argue with Harry, not staying to be seen by the 120 guests we invited and who will right now be making their way to the venue. No, I’m running, running as far from the scene of Harry’s rejection as I can.

“Emily!” Grace tries again.

I ignore her, racing into Leicester Square Underground Station, down a staircase, along a busy corridor, past surprised faces.

“Emily!”

My phone is still in my hand after that nightmarish call with Harry. I use it to get through the gates, then I charge onto the escalator and down the left-hand side, paying no attention to the protests or shocked exclamations of those I pass.

When I accidentally nudge one man, he complains, “Stop bloody shoving, you impatient—” But his words catch in his throat when he turns to look at me.