The priest's voice cuts through the chapel like a blade through silk.
"Is there anyone here who objects to the union of Mr. Alex Ashworth and his bride—Miss Evelyn Sinclair?"
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
I sit in the front row, hands folded in my lap like a good girl, like the obedient daughter they've trained me to be for fourteen years. My mother—adoptive mother, because let's not pretend blood means anything in this family—sits beside me, her perfume cloying and thick. She doesn't look at me. She hasn't looked at me all day.
Why would she? I'm not the bride.
My sister is.
Twenty-one-year-old Evelyn stands at the altar in a gown that cost more than my yearly salary, her veil cascading down her back like a waterfall of lies. She's glowing. Radiant. Everything a bride should be.
And beside her, in a custom-fitted tuxedo that I know cost a small fortune because I helped him pick the designer, is Alex Ashworth.
My fiancé.
Ex-fiancé, I remind myself. Though the ring I wore for two years only came off my finger three weeks ago, and the indent is still there—a pale ghost of what I thought my future would be.
The priest drones on. I don't hear the words. I'm too busy watching the way Alex's hand rests on Evelyn's lower back, possessive and sure, the same way it used to rest on mine when we'd walk through the city on Sunday mornings.
My chest tightens. I dig my nails into my palms until I feel the sting.
Don't cry. Don't you dare fucking cry.
The memory hits me anyway, sharp and unforgiving.
⚘☙⚘
Three weeks ago.
I'd been so excited. Stupidly, pathetically excited.
It was Alex's birthday, and I'd scrimped and saved for months to afford the gift I'd bought him—a crisp white dress shirt from Romano, the luxury brand he obsessed over. He'd wanted a piece from their collection for years, but the prices were obscene. I'd worked double shifts at the café, skipped meals, wore the same clothes until they were threadbare.
But I didn't care. I loved him. And I wanted to see his face light up when he opened it.
I let myself into his apartment with the spare key he'd given me, the gift bag swinging from my wrist. I was giddy, buzzing with anticipation—like a child promised ten more minutes before bedtime.
The lights were on. Voices drifted from the living room.
I froze.
My family was there.
All of them.
My father—Nico Sinclair, a man whose presence alone could suck the warmth out of a room. My mother—Tristine, with her porcelain skin and cruel mouth. And Evelyn, my baby sister, perched on the loveseat beside Alex like she belonged there.
His parents were there too, sitting across from mine, all of them arranged around the coffee table like this was some kind of board meeting.
Confusion prickled at the back of my neck. Had I forgotten something? A dinner? A family meeting?
"Eva!" Evelyn's voice was bright, too bright, and when I looked at her, I saw it—the way her hand rested on Alex's forearm, fingers curled possessively around his wrist.
My stomach dropped.
"What's going on?" I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.
Evelyn's smile widened. Her hazel eyes sparkled with something I couldn't name. Excitement. Triumph.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
The world tilted.
I looked at Alex. His black eyes met mine, cold and unreadable. No apology. No explanation. Just a silent challenge: Say something. I dare you.
I couldn't breathe.
My mother's voice cut through the ringing in my ears. "Isn't it wonderful, Eva? You're going to be an aunt."
An aunt.
My little sister was pregnant.
With my fiancé's child.
I don't remember leaving. I don't remember walking out of the apartment, down the stairs, onto the street. But suddenly I was sitting at a bus stop three blocks away, my phone in my trembling hands, and I was calling the only person I trusted.
"Amy," I choked out when she answered. "I need you."
Twenty minutes later, I was in her car.
Amy didn't ask questions. She took one look at my face and drove.
By the time we got to her apartment, I'd told her everything. The pregnancy. The way they'd all sat there like it was normal. Like I was supposed to smile and congratulate them.
"You're obviously in need of a fucking break, Eva," Amy said, pulling me out of the embrace we'd fallen into on her couch. "And I hate to be a horrible friend by saying this instead of making you feel better, but everything you just told me is fucked up."
I laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "You think?"
Amy cupped my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. "Look. You are going to allow yourself to let go and recoup. You need to get your bearings and stand your fucking ground."
I sniffled, wiping at my nose with the back of my hand. "How?"
Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "We're going to get fucked up tonight."
I blinked. "What?"
"Club. Sexy clothes. A bottle—or two—of the strongest alcohol they have." Her voice rose with each word, excitement and determination mixing in her bright green eyes. She stood, marching to her closet and throwing it open with dramatic flair.
Clothes exploded onto the floor as she rifled through hangers, tossing reject after reject over her shoulder. Finally, she held up a slip of red silk, unfolding it to reveal the skimpiest dress I'd ever seen—a cowl neckline that would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
She threw it at me. I caught it on instinct.
"I can't wear this," I said.
"You can," Amy countered, pulling out a black dress for herself with a neckline so deep it was practically criminal. "And you will. Because tonight isn't about Alex, or Evelyn, or your shitty family. Tonight is about you. The beginning of the new Eva. Your rebirth."
I stared at the dress in my hands.
Rebirth.
The word settled over me like armor.
I thought about the girl I used to be. The one who stayed quiet when her adoptive parents locked her in her room for days at a time. The one who smiled and nodded when they paraded her out for their little "charity conferences" to show off how generous they were for taking in an orphan.
The one who thought love would save her.
That girl was gone.
And good fucking riddance.
An hour later, I was squeezed into the red dress, my hair curled and wild, my lips painted the color of fresh blood. Amy had done my makeup—smoky eyes, sharp contours, nothing soft or sweet.
I looked like someone else.
I looked dangerous.
"You ready?" Amy asked, grabbing her purse.
I met my own eyes in the mirror. The girl staring back at me was a stranger. And I loved her.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm ready."
⚘☙⚘
Present.
The priest's voice pulls me back to the chapel.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Alex leans in. Evelyn tilts her face up, eyes fluttering closed.
Their lips meet.
The congregation erupts in polite applause.
I don't clap.
I sit perfectly still, my hands folded in my lap, my face a mask of serene indifference.
But inside?
Inside, I'm planning.
I'm going to destroy them. All of them.
And I'm going to enjoy every. Single. Moment.
Starting tonight.