IRIS POV
The text message glowed on my phone like a tiny bomb: *Running late. Don't worry.*
I stared at those three words until they blurred. Damien had sent them two hours ago.
Two. Hours.
I was alone in the bridal suite, wearing a white dress that cost more than my car, and my fiancé was "running late" to our wedding.
My hands shook as I checked my phone again. Nothing. The silence felt like insects crawling under my skin.
"He's probably just stuck in traffic," I whispered to my reflection. The girl in the mirror didn't look convinced. Her dark eyes were too wide, her smile too fake. "It's fine. Everything's fine."
A knock interrupted my spiral into panic.
Finally.
I rushed to the door, my heart doing weird fluttery things in my chest. "Damien, you scared me half to—"
My father stood in the hallway. Not Damien.
Dad's face looked wrong. Like someone had erased all the happiness from it and forgotten to draw it back.
"Iris." His voice cracked on my name. "We need to talk."
"Where's Damien?" I stepped back, suddenly cold despite the hotel's heating. "Dad, what's happening?"
He wouldn't meet my eyes. My father, who'd always looked at me like I hung the moon after Mom died, couldn't look at me.
That's when I knew. Before he said anything, before the world ended, I knew.
"He's not coming, is he?"
Dad's silence was louder than screaming.
My legs turned to water. I grabbed the doorframe to stay standing. "Dad?"
"Let me explain—"
"Iris?"
That voice. Soft and weak and so, so familiar.
Vivienne appeared behind Dad, clinging to his arm like a baby bird. My stepsister looked thin and pale in her expensive coat. Her blonde hair was covered by a silk scarf. She'd always been pretty, but now she looked fragile. Breakable.
And Damien was holding her other hand.
My Damien. My fiancé. Holding my stepsister's hand while I stood there in my wedding dress.
The world tilted sideways.
"Iris, I'm so sorry." Damien's voice sounded far away, like he was calling from the bottom of a well. "I didn't know how to tell you. I was going to, but then—"
"Tell me what?" My voice didn't sound like mine. It was too high, too tight. "Damien, our wedding starts in fifteen minutes. Everyone's downstairs waiting."
He finally looked at me. Really looked at me. And what I saw in his eyes made me want to throw up.
Pity.
"I can't marry you," he said.
Four words. That's all it took to destroy six years.
I laughed. It came out weird and broken. "Is this a joke? Because it's not funny—"
"Vivienne has cancer," Dad interrupted. His words hit me like bullets. "Stage four. The doctors say she has six months. Maybe less."
Six months.
I looked at my stepsister. She was crying now, silent tears sliding down her porcelain cheeks. She looked like an angel. A dying angel.
And I looked like the monster for standing there in my wedding dress while she was dying.
"I don't understand," I whispered. My brain felt fuzzy, like it was wrapped in cotton. "What does that have to do with—"
"She's always loved Damien," Dad said softly. "Since you brought him home from college. She never said anything because she didn't want to hurt you. But now..."
"Now she's dying," Damien finished. His hand tightened around Vivienne's. "I can't let her die without experiencing this. Without having one happy memory. You understand, right? You're strong, Iris. You'll be okay."
Strong. He thought I was strong.
I'd worked three jobs to put him through business school. I'd skipped meals so he could eat. I'd given up my dreams so he could chase his. I'd done everything for him.
And he thought I was strong enough to watch him marry someone else.
"The wedding is already paid for," Vivienne said quietly. Her voice was barely a whisper. "It seems wasteful to cancel everything. So Damien and I... we're getting married today. Instead."
The room spun.
"You're taking my wedding?" I heard myself say. "You're taking my fiancé and my wedding?"
"Iris, don't be dramatic." That was Patricia, Vivienne's mother. My stepmother. She pushed past Dad into the room, her face hard. "My daughter is dying. Surely you can be selfless for once in your life."
Selfless. She thought I was selfish.
I'd lived in their house for thirteen years after Dad remarried. I'd made myself small and quiet and invisible. I'd never complained when Vivienne got the bigger room, the better presents, all of Dad's attention. I'd swallowed my feelings until I forgot what they tasted like.
And I was selfish.
"Get out of the dress," Patricia ordered. "Vivienne needs to get ready. The guests are waiting."
My hands moved to the zipper. Like a puppet. Like I wasn't even real anymore.
"Oh, and Iris?" Dad's voice stopped me. "Patricia thinks it's best if you move out of the apartment. Today. After the wedding."
The apartment. The one Damien and I shared. The one I'd furnished and cleaned and turned into a home.
"It's in my name," Damien said, not meeting my eyes anymore. "I'm sorry, but—"
"And your trust fund," Patricia added. Her voice was sharp now, cutting. "We're transferring it to Vivienne. For medical bills. I'm sure you understand."
My trust fund. The one Mom left me. The only piece of her I had left.
They were taking everything.
I looked at Dad. Waited for him to say something. To defend me. To choose me just once.
He stared at the floor.
Something inside me cracked. Not my heart. That was already broken. Something deeper. Something that had been holding me together my whole life.
It snapped.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Okay."
I unzipped the dress. Stepped out of it. Handed it to Vivienne with hands that didn't shake anymore.
Funny thing about breaking completely—you stop feeling anything at all.
I walked past all of them. Down the hallway. Down the stairs. Through the lobby where two hundred guests waited for a wedding that wasn't mine anymore.
Outside, it was raining. Big, angry drops that soaked through my thin clothes in seconds.
I stood on the sidewalk with nothing but my purse. No home. No money. No family. No future.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number: *Get in the car, Iris Chen.*
I looked up.
A black Rolls Royce idled at the curb. The back door opened.
A man sat inside. Even in the shadows, I could see he was beautiful in a dangerous way. Sharp jawline. Eyes like winter storms. A suit that probably cost more than my entire life.
He held an umbrella.
"You're getting wet," he said. His voice was smoke and whiskey and promises. "And I have a proposition for you."
I should run. Should ask questions. Should do anything except get in a stranger's car.
Instead, I stepped forward.
Because what did I have left to lose?