I was humiliated on my wedding day and ran away to my aunt’s village, thinking she’d be the one person who wouldn’t judge me. But she didn’t let me stay in her house—she sent me to sleep in her abandoned old bakery instead. Six months later, when she came back to sell the place, she walked in… and went completely still.
On the morning of Anya Mercer’s wedding, the bridal suite looked like something that belonged in a magazine spread—soft window light, white robes, champagne flutes sweating on a mirrored tray, and a slow, careful swirl of hairspray that hung in the air like fog.
Her mother stood behind her chair, hands steady on Anya’s shoulders. “Just breathe,” she murmured for what had to be the twentieth time. “Just breathe, Anya.”
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