Chapter 1 - The Broken Rose
""You still do that thing when you're pretending you're not lost?"" Lauren asked, leaning across the low cocktail table.
The rooftop lounge was quiet now, save for the faint hum of Chicago traffic fifteen stories below and the clink of melting ice in lowball glasses. Her voice was playful, drenched in the effortless familiarity of two people who had once mapped out every inch of each other’s habits.
Ryan laughed—that low, easy rumble in his chest that used to make me feel completely anchored to the earth. ""I don’t pretend. I just take the scenic route.""
""Right. And the scenic route once cost us four hundred dollars in towing fees outside Knoxville,"" she shot back, shaking her head.
The table erupted into chuckles. Mason nudged Ryan’s shoulder, someone raised a glass of stale bourbon, and for a split second, nobody looked at me. Why would they? I was just the woman wearing ivory silk at the end of the banquette, the decorative new addition to a history that had started a decade before I ever set foot in Illinois.
I watched the way Ryan leaned forward when Lauren spoke. His posture didn’t say married man celebrating the happiest day of his life. It said unresolved chapter waiting for an edit.
Suddenly, Lauren gasped, pressing a hand to her temple. The laughter around the table sputtered out.
""Lauren? You okay?"" Ryan’s hand was already on the edge of the mahogany table, knuckles whitening.
""I’m dizzy,"" she murmured, her eyelids fluttering shut. Her complexion had gone noticeably pale, though whether from two dirty martinis or theatrical timing, I couldn't yet tell. ""I think... when I stood up by the elevator earlier, my head just started spinning. I should probably go up to my room.""
She tried to push herself up from the plush leather booth. Her knees buckled just enough to be dramatic.
Ryan was on his feet before Mason could even reach for his jacket. ""Whoa, steady. I've got you.""
A night concierge was standing less than four feet away, discreetly wiping down a station near the private entrance. ""I can call hotel medical staff or bring a wheelchair from the lobby, sir,"" the staff member offered politely, stepping forward.
Ryan didn't even glance at the man. ""No need. What room are you in, Laur?""
""Fourteen-twelve,"" she whispered against his shoulder.
And then, right there beneath the dim amber lighting of the lounge, my husband scooped his ex-girlfriend into his arms. Not supporting her elbow. Not letting her lean on his shoulder while they walked together. He lifted her fully off the floor, his forearm hooking beneath her knees, pulling her chest firmly against his crisp white tuxedo shirt.
The air sucked out of the room. Natalie froze mid-sip, her glass hovering inches from her lips. Mason stared down at his shoes. Nobody breathed.
Ryan didn't look back at the table. He didn't look back at me. He just carried Lauren through the double doors, her bare arm draped around his neck like an accessory he had worn for years.
I stood there in my reception dress, the fabric suddenly feeling suffocatingly cold against my skin.
Twenty minutes passed.
Every second ticked like a hammer hitting glass. Natalie tried to grab my wrist, whispering, ""Hannah, come sit down, let me call down to the desk—""
""Don't,"" I said. My voice was eerily level.
I walked out to the elevator bank alone. The carpet muffled my heels. The mirrored brass doors reflected a bride standing vigil while her husband played savior in another woman's quarters.
When the elevator chime finally sounded, the doors parted, and Ryan stepped out.
His tie was undone, hanging loose around his collar. His jacket was draped lazily over his forearm. And the delicate white boutonniere from his lapel—the flower I had personally pinned over his heart that morning—was crushed completely flat against the fabric.
He saw me standing under the harsh recessed lighting.
He didn't rush forward. He didn't gasp and reach for my waist. He didn't say, I am so sorry, that was completely out of line.
Instead, Ryan sighed, his eyebrows drawing together in irritation.
""Please don't tell me you're jealous,"" he said.
The silence that followed was louder than any scream. I looked at the man who, eight hours ago, had sworn before God and two hundred witnesses that I would never have to doubt my place in his life.
May you like
I looked down at the platinum band on my left ring finger. The metal felt foreign now. Cheap.
Without blinking, without a tear spilling over my eyelashes, I pinched the band between my thumb and forefinger. I pulled it off, dropped it onto the hallway carpet with a soft, dead thud, turned around, and walked toward the stairwell.
