Chapter 1 

Lila

I stare at my phone so hard my eyes blur. My first thought is that I’ve misread something. Maybe I’m hallucinating from stress or short on sleep. But no—the words remain exactly the same.

I can’t marry you, Lila. I’m sorry.

That’s it. Thirteen measly characters to end a life we spent two years building. Three days before the ceremony. The screen times out. I press the home button, reread, and realize—this isn’t a mistake. Mason Carter, my fiancé, has decided to walk away from me via text message.

My heart pounds with a mix of fury and humiliation. At the same time, a strange calm, almost like shock, settles over my body. I’m not crying. I’m just…numb. There’s an ache in my throat that warns tears might be coming, but I won’t let them out. Not yet. Not while the wedding planner is on his way and I have a half-dozen incoming calls from family members eager to know every detail of the upcoming “big day.”

I set the phone on the marble counter beside a tidy stack of wedding magazines I’ve been skimming for last-minute centerpiece ideas. There’s a full-length mirror opposite me in the living room, a gift from my grandmother that I’ve had since I was a teenager. Looking at my reflection, I try to see what Mason no longer wants. My figure is petite but curvy. I’m about five-foot-six, and I’ve spent the past months doing hot yoga sessions so I’d look my best on the honeymoon. My deep brown skin has a faint glow, and my thick curls are pinned atop my head with a silk scarf. I’m wearing yoga pants and a sleeveless tank, but I know how I can look in full bridal regalia. I saw the dress in my last fitting. I looked radiant—everybody said so.

Now I feel like a discarded prop.

I force a single long breath and remind myself I don’t have the luxury of a private meltdown. No, not meltdown—this is a crisis, and I have to keep it together. I live in an upscale condo in Manhattan, courtesy of my job and a bit of help from my grandmother’s inheritance. Our wedding venue is a fancy hotel just a few blocks away, and by tomorrow, guests from out of state—some from overseas—are scheduled to start arriving. The press caught wind of the union between me and Mason Carter, the CFO’s son at Carter-Harper Solutions, so we’ve had photographers sniffing around for weeks. There’s no hiding from this unless I vanish into the night.

The phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a call from my best friend, Tami. I know if I pick up, her questions will steamroll me: What do you mean the wedding is off? Are you sure he’s not just messing with you? Why would Mason text that? As if I have an answer. I swipe to decline. Not because I don’t love her, but because I can’t say anything coherent yet.

Another buzz. Voicemail from Javier, my wedding planner. I let it ring out. Javier’s voice message dings, but I don’t listen. I’m too raw to speak to anyone who might set my tears in motion.

I pace the length of the living room, my feet sinking into the plush cream rug. Mason and I chose this place together. He even helped me paint the walls a lovely pale yellow in the bedroom. Did he ever intend to follow through on all the promises we made? Or was this relationship just another line item for him? One bullet point that got cut when things stopped being convenient?

I swallow a lump in my throat and gently move aside the leftover wedding décor samples: gold ribbons, miniature placeholders, a list of high-end flower vendors I was planning to call today. My phone lights up again—my mother’s calling. Great. She’s probably read the text too. Mason might have told her, or maybe the Carter family jumped on damage control mode. The Carters are big on preserving image.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, ignoring the call for now. If I speak to my mother, I’ll lose what’s left of my composure. No. I’ll face her later, once I’ve formed a plan.

I walk over to the kitchen sink and fill a glass of water, letting cool liquid soothe my throat. My reflection in the small window above the sink is tense—dark brown eyes too bright, lips pressed tightly together. You’re Lila Monroe, I remind myself silently. You don’t shatter. You bend, you adapt, but you do not break.

“Right,” I mutter, forcing a wry half-smile at my reflection. “Except the guy I thought I’d marry just ghosted me in the cruelest way possible.” My chest tightens, a warning that I’m close to falling apart. I straighten my shoulders and talk to myself in a calmer voice. “Breathe. You can handle this.”

A sharp knock on the door nearly makes me drop my glass. I set it down and walk over, checking the peephole. Javier. His bleached blond hair is visible, along with that expression of near-panic I’ve come to recognize whenever he’s behind schedule or something threatens his perfect wedding timeline. I almost ignore him but realize I’d rather face him than face my mother right now.

Opening the door, I catch Javier mid-gesture. “Lila, finally,” he exclaims, stepping inside without waiting for permission. He’s wearing a violet blazer over a pink shirt, and his eyes are darting around like he’s looking for the next catastrophe. “You didn’t pick up your phone, and we have so many details to finalize.”

I close the door behind him and lean back, crossing my arms. “Javier…”

He notices my tone and narrows his eyes. “Why do you look like you swallowed a lemon? Is it Mason? Don’t tell me he’s changed the color scheme at the last minute or something.”

His question stings so badly I can’t answer. I let out a shaky breath, and my silence must speak volumes. Javier’s expression shifts from annoyed to worried in a blink. “What happened?”

I hand him my phone so he can read the text. It’s still there, ugly and concise. Javier’s eyes move rapidly, and then he mutters, “Are you—He texted you? He ended everything by phone like that?”

I nod, a hollow pit in my stomach. “Looks that way.”

“Where is he right now?”

“I don’t know,” I say, voice tight. “I haven’t called him back. He made his position clear enough.”

Javier huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Unbelievable. I can’t believe he’d sabotage—” He stops himself, apparently trying to pick a gentler word. “He’s not just hurting you. He’s messing with an entire event. People have flown in from around the world to see you get married.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure they’ll love the refund on their plane tickets,” I say, tension rippling through my voice. A wave of exhaustion wraps around me, making me want to collapse onto the couch. But I hold still, pressing my fingers into my palm to focus. “I need to figure out how to handle the next few days. People are going to be arriving soon.”

Javier purses his lips, and for once, he’s speechless. “We could…postpone?” he suggests carefully. “Give him time to come to his senses?”

I shake my head. The idea of calling it a “postponement” just so the Carter family can save face—no. My pride flares at the thought. “He said he can’t marry me. That’s not ‘I need a few more days.’ That’s final.” The last two words taste bitter, but I force them out. “There’s no reason to drag this out.”

Javier exhales slowly, his shoulders slumping. “Alright. I’ll help with the immediate logistics. We can contact the venue, the vendors—”

I hold up a hand. “I appreciate it. Just…give me a second to clear my head.”

He nods solemnly, stepping back. “Of course. If you need me to play bulldog with the Carter family, say the word. I’m not beyond a well-chosen insult or two if they try to pin this on you.” He sets my phone on the coffee table, then glances around, presumably searching for something to do, some crisis he can solve. Not finding anything immediate, he sighs. “Call me if you want me to start damage control on social media. I can put out a statement, or we can do a subtle spin so it doesn’t look like you’re to blame.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But I might need to handle that myself.” I don’t trust that the Carter PR machine won’t spin something that puts me in a bad light. The last thing I want is a rumor that I got cold feet or something equally untrue.

Javier nods, his eyes softened. “I’m here to help, Lila. Remember that.” He starts edging toward the door. “Let me know if you need anything. And I do mean anything.”

Once he’s gone, the quiet is suffocating. I walk into the bedroom, catching sight of the gown that’s hanging from the closet door. The white fabric gleams softly, a testament to the last few months of planning every tiny detail. My heart squeezes at the memory of how excited I was picking out lace patterns, selecting the train length, imagining the day I’d wear it and walk down the aisle with everyone I love cheering me on.

Now I’m left with a phone that mocks me with one succinct text.

I can’t marry you, Lila. I’m sorry.

I read it one more time, and something inside me breaks. My pulse pounds in my ears, and hot tears flood my vision. Dropping onto the edge of my bed, I bury my face in my hands, letting everything pour out. The illusions, the hope, the naive belief that love is guaranteed once you say “yes” to a ring. It’s like I’ve been ejected from a dream, and the landing hurts.

I’m not sure how long I stay there, but eventually I realize I need to do something. Even if I’m crumbling inside, I have to make calls, send emails, maybe even talk to the press. Or I could hide. Hiding sounds sweet, but that’s never been my style.

Standing up, I wipe my eyes, then adjust my scarf. My grandmother used to call me “her fearless girl,” and I never wanted to disappoint that image. Sometimes bravado and composure are all we have. I head to the living room again, grabbing a stack of vendor contact sheets. My phone is silent, which means either Tami finally gave up calling or she’s on her way here in person.

One by one, I begin the calls.

“Hello, this is Lila Monroe. I need to speak with—yes, about the cake delivery. It’s…no longer necessary. No, the wedding’s not going forward. Thank you.”

They ask me if I want to reschedule. I say no. I make up a line about a personal emergency, because I can’t handle their pity.

Then onto the next call. And the next. By the time I’ve canceled the florist, the DJ, and the photographer, my voice is unsteady. The caterer wants partial payment since it’s such short notice. I agree. We have enough in the wedding fund for that. It hurts, though. Thousands of dollars gone because he texted me at the last minute.

I press the phone to my temple, forcing myself to breathe. A sharp rap on the door stops me mid-sigh. I wonder if it’s Javier again, or maybe Tami. But when I open it, I see a tall, broad-shouldered figure with a security badge clipped to his belt.

I blink in confusion. “Yes?”

He’s wearing a plain black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. His eyes flick to a camera crew behind him—two men adjusting lights and a camera. My stomach twists at the sight. They’re from “Daily Manhattan,” one of those entertainment news outlets that love weddings of the rich and connected.

“Ms. Monroe,” the man says politely, “we’d like a brief interview about your upcoming ceremony. How does it feel to be marrying into the Carter family—”

I slam the door before he finishes. They must have found the address. Immediately, my phone starts buzzing again. Probably them calling for a direct quote. My palms are clammy, and my heart races. They’re going to figure out soon enough that the wedding is off. Then I’ll be the story of the week—a bride abandoned just before exchanging vows. Mason will be free of all the inconvenience. Maybe he’s counting on that. Let me take the brunt while he disappears somewhere.

I lean against the door, pressing my forehead to the wood. Why is he doing this? Did I miss some red flags? Did I not see that he was drifting away or hesitating?

The tears threaten again, so I push myself upright. I can’t let those reporters camp out in the hallway, so I scurry to the window. The street below is busy, with a few cars honking. No sign of a big press mob yet, which is a relief. But if that camera crew is persistent, they’ll be out there soon enough.

Think, Lila. You’re strong. Resourceful. I grab my phone and text Tami a quick message: Need you now. Press is here. Then I toss the phone onto the couch and run my hands over my face. My mind is flipping through options: I could pack a bag and go to a hotel, somewhere discreet. Or I can stay here and put up a front. Either choice feels like I’m giving in to the humiliating circus that Mason started.

A vibration rattles the coffee table. It’s Tami’s name flashing on the screen. I answer. Her voice floods through. “Lila, oh my God, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. I just talked to Mason—”

“You talked to him?” The words slip out with more venom than intended. “Where is he?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He just said it’s for the best. Something about not wanting to hurt you or drag you into a bigger problem.”

I scoff so harshly it burns my throat. “Well, too late for that. Hurt is done. Is he at least going to show his face and handle this mess with me?”

Tami’s quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t know. Lila, I’m so sorry. I wish I had answers.”

My eyes drift to the window, the reporter’s words echoing in my mind. “Look,” I say softly, “I can’t deal with the media alone. They’re literally in my building.”

Tami sucks in a breath. “Stay calm. I’ll come by with my car. We’ll drive out the back exit or something and find somewhere to regroup. I can call a few friends to help. Is that okay?”

Relief mingles with frustration that I even need an escape plan. “Yes, please. Hurry.”

I hang up and pace the living room again, a restless loop. The wedding was supposed to be in three days—my mother was flying in from Florida tomorrow. Family from the Caribbean were arriving the day after. Now I don’t know how to break the news. My grandmother would have said to face it head-on, but the last thing I want is to see pity etched on everyone’s faces.

Determined not to let the heartbreak define me, I place the phone on silent and grab my overnight bag from the bedroom closet. The lacy robe I bought for the honeymoon sits folded inside, a reminder of the future I no longer have. I yank it out and toss it aside, swallowing hard. I stuff in a few essentials—clothes, toiletries, a pair of practical shoes. Then I see the wedding dress again, shining like an accusation. Something in me bristles. I can’t look at that gown another second.

Instead of tearing it down, I slide the closet door shut, cutting off my view. “Not now,” I whisper. Another wave of disbelief rips through me. He really ended it like this. I mentally recite my mantra: I am strong. I will not break.

My thoughts drift to the Carter family. They probably have their own take on this. Mason’s father is controlling and cold; maybe he orchestrated everything. Or maybe Mason just chickened out. None of that changes the fact I’m left picking up the pieces.

The phone screen lights up with Tami’s text: I’m outside. Two blocks down, near the service entrance.

I grab my bag and a coat. Breathing through the tension in my chest, I head out of the apartment, locking the door behind me. The hallway is quiet, but I know the camera crew might be lurking near the elevators. So I take the stairs, creeping down ten flights with my heart pounding.

By the time I slip out the back exit, Tami’s car is in sight. She’s leaning against the passenger door, scanning the area. The moment she spots me, she waves frantically. I break into a quick stride, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a couple of neighbors in the alley. Tami throws open the passenger door, and I collapse into the seat.

She slides in behind the wheel. Her eyes brim with worry as she looks me over. “You okay?”

I let out a sharp breath. “No. But let’s get out of here before the press notices.”

She nods, starts the car, and we move into traffic. As she merges onto the street, I finally let my eyes close for a second. My chest feels like it’s cracking. This is so far from what I’d pictured. I’ve lost not only a fiancé but the future I imagined. So many details undone, so many questions unanswered.

Tami’s voice is soft as she says, “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time, okay?”

I bite my lower lip, tasting tears I refuse to let fall. “Thanks for being here.”

Outside the window, Manhattan blurs by, the bustle of city life continuing as though my world isn’t spinning. I exhale shakily, swallowing the anguish that threatens to escape. The invitation list, the décor, the vow drafts…I let it all go, at least for this moment. Because I have to. My pride won’t let me curl up and quit.

I’m Lila Monroe. And even if my wedding is gone, I’m not gone. I’m still here.

That thought gives me just enough strength to meet Tami’s gaze. “Let’s find someplace quiet,” I say. “I need a strategy. And maybe a stiff drink.”

She nods, and her voice is unwavering. “I’ve got you.”

As we turn the corner, flashes of paparazzi lights glimmer in the rearview mirror, but they fade into the distance as Tami presses on the gas. My phone is silent now—no more calls from Javier or my mother or anyone else. For the first time in what feels like hours, I can breathe.

I don’t know exactly what tomorrow holds, but I do know one thing: the wedding I spent months planning is off, and the man I trusted abandoned me with a one-sentence text. I will not let this define me. I will hurt, yes, but I will also survive. Because my heart may be battered, but it’s still my own. And no one, not even Mason Carter, can take that away from me.