Runaway Bride, Found Love

my fiancé, Mark, told me my only job was to look beautiful. For ye

rheard them on a forgotten baby monitor. They were discu

t just to calm

ceremony before sending me to

Birthday" banner and turn my reception into a lavish party for my nephew. My enti

ow I knew the horrifying truth: they weren't just ignoring

r had left me one last

Thorne, with the words "Unconventiona

and a silk robe, and walked away from my life, leaving them to cl

pte

ith the cloying scent of a thousand white lilies and the faint, sharp tang of hairspray. Outside the grand, floor-to-

was a heavy, liquid coolness against my skin, its intricate beadwork catching the light and fracturing it in

Clara. Jus

red against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone and lace. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Everyone kept saying so. My mot

oom, her own dress a whisper of dove-grey chiffon. She smelled of Chanel No. 5 and quiet dis

ray curl near my temple. The touch was meant to be comforting, but it felt li

n't show her she'

I managed, my voice

houlder to catch her own reflection. "All brides get them. Just

one's expectations. Mark had called it a 'charming little wobble.' My mother had called it an embarrassment. They bo

e was everything I wasn't: effortlessly confident, radiant, the mother of a cherubic little boy, Leo, who w

r voice like honey laced with arsenic.

iar, hot flush of inadequacy. She was the daughter my mother al

d, holding out the flute. The bubbles danc

That phrase. A ver

ushed." She turned to me. "Now, I'm just going to check on the final arrangements

n the fragrant, suffocating silence with Isabe

fter today, everything will finally settle down. We can have a proper celebration

was in the main ballroom. Was she implyin

abelle," I said, my voic

ourse, silly. I just mean... well, once all this fuss is over. Mark has been

worries about

blem to be managed. Mark wasn't marrying a partner; he was acqui

fulness. He looked handsome in his tuxedo, his dark hair perfectly coiffed. But

er and kissed my cheek, his lips dry and brief. He smelled of expensive cologne

ightly. "Isabelle was just saying... a

yance crossed his face before being smoothed away. He shot a dar

ers like ice. "Clara, darling. Don't do this. No

sperate rush. "It feels like everyone is looking straight thro

sed when I was being 'difficult.' "You're overwrought. It's the stress. Why do you

into an accusation, make me the villain of my own story. My conce

y. "Just smile, look beautiful, and walk

amiliar, hollow ache. He kissed my forehead and left, leaving

nt smirk before following him out.

orners of my eyes, and I blinked them back furiously, refusing to ruin the mak

ne today: a small, silver locket from my grandmother. She was the only one who had ever seen me, really seen me.

cold and sharp, lanced through me. I emptied the purse onto the sil

t in the small, antique wooden box she'd left me, for

nd pulled out the small, cedar box. The familiar, comforting scent of the wood fille

else was. Tucked beneath the velvet lining, a place I had never looked b

e, stark business card. It was made of a heavy, mat

ne Industries. Uncon

faded but the handwriting unmistakably my grandmother's.

t. The message was short, a li

re ready to ch

the imposing name. Julian Thorne. I didn't know who he was, but

the first time all day, I felt a flicker of something other than despair. It