Chapter 1 - The Stranger’s Reply
The harsh blue light of my laptop screen stung my swollen eyes as the morning sun crept through the blinds of my quiet apartment. The air felt heavy, smelling faintly of old coffee and lavender scented tissues. Just seventy-two hours earlier, this living room had contained two lives: matching coffee mugs, shared calendars, and wedding RSVPs taped to the refrigerator door.
Now, there was only a single suitcase mark near the entryway baseboard where Greg had dragged his luggage out into the rain.
I stared at the inbox notification. My hands shook so violently that the cursor bounced erratically across the glass trackpad. When I sent the email at three in the morning, fueled by wine and sheer exhaustion, I had expected silence. Or worse, a polite automated rejection from the talent agency warning me that impersonating a groom in a sacred ceremony violated their terms of service.
The subject line was simple: Re: Wedding Booking - October 18th.
The sender's name was Julian Vance. On the agency’s budget roster, he was listed simply as a twenty-eight-year-old freelance theater performer specializing in corporate industrial videos and background extra work. His rate had been five hundred dollars for a four-hour block—the absolute lowest tier on the site.
I clicked the message, holding my breath.
Miss Vance—or rather, Miss Clara Sterling, the email began. I read your message. Twice. Most people would tell you this is insane. Some would call it morbid. But I know what it means to watch the clock run out while everyone around you pretends tomorrow is guaranteed. I don’t want your five hundred dollars. Keep it for your medical bills. I will be at St. Jude’s Chapel on Saturday morning at ten o'clock sharp. I have my own tailored black tuxedo. All I ask is that you tell me your favorite song so I know what to hum in your ear when you start to shake.
A sharp, ragged sob tore from my throat. I pressed my palms against my mouth, falling forward onto the desk as hot tears soaked the keyboard.
Greg had claimed he loved me for four years. He had kissed my forehead on vacations in Vermont, held my hand during my father’s retirement party, and helped me pick out bone china patterns. Yet the moment Doctor Mercer had placed my thoracic scans on the light board and pointed out the aggressive, irregular shadows creeping across my lung lining, Greg had vanished like mist. “I’m sorry, Clara,” he had whispered, refusing to meet my eyes while stuffing his designer dress shirts into a duffel bag. “I can’t sit in a hospital room and watch someone deteriorate. I’m just not strong enough.”
He wasn't strong enough to sit in a chair, but I was expected to die alone.
My mother had called four times that morning, frantically asking if Greg had chosen his groomsmen gifts yet. My father, who had spent his entire retirement savings of thirty-five thousand dollars on the deposit for the Grandview Manor reception hall, had texted me a picture of his freshly pressed gray morning suit.
How could I tell them? How could I look at my father, whose heart was already fragile, and say: The man you trusted with your only child ran away because he doesn't want to attend a funeral after a honeymoon?
I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve and typed a single sentence in response:
Canon in D. Thank you, Julian.
Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated on the wooden nightstand. An unknown local number flashed on the screen.
May you like
I answered with a raspy whisper. ""Hello?""
""Clara?"" A deep, calm voice came through the receiver, resonant and remarkably steady, carrying no pity, no false cheer, and none of the tiptoeing hesitation I had endured from doctors all week. ""It’s Julian. I’m standing outside the diner across from your apartment building. Put on a coat. If we’re getting married in forty-eight hours, we need to make sure our stories align before your mother catches us slipping.""
