Part 1

An hour before my wedding, I was barefoot in the bridal suite of St. Andrew’s Chapel, one hand pressed against my lower back and the other resting on my swollen belly, trying to breathe through the sharp pain that came and went. At seven months pregnant, every movement felt heavier, slower, more fragile. My maid of honor, Emily, had gone downstairs to check the flowers, and my mother was in the reception hall making sure the place cards were properly set. For the first time all morning, I was alone.

I thought I heard Ethan’s voice in the hallway.

At first, I smiled. I wasn’t supposed to see him before the ceremony, but he always laughed at those traditions. I assumed he was nervous, maybe wanting to talk to me for a moment, maybe wanting to tell me I looked beautiful before everything began. I walked toward the door, ready to tease him for breaking the tradition.

Then I heard another voice. A man’s voice. Probably Connor, his best man.

Ethan let out a low laugh and said, “After today, it won’t matter anymore.”