Chapter 1

Kenya

I catch his eye. That's the moment—right there. My lips part into a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. The cool marble beneath my heels grounds me as the horrified whispers swirl around the chapel.

"Kenya," he mouths, not into the microphone. Like my name is still a secret between us.

I tilt my phone higher, the red recording light blinking like a warning. "Don't stop on my account, babe. Actually—this lighting is incredible. Mind if I get a better angle?"

I take three steps forward. A security guard materializes from somewhere, but I freeze him with a look. I've perfected that look in twelve different paid partnerships for eyewear brands.

"Is that—" someone whispers.

"The crazy ex—" another voice hisses.

I laugh, the sound echoing against stained glass and judgment. "Crazy? No, honey. Meticulous. Determined. On a rampage."

The bride's father stands, his face flushed with righteous indignation. "This is completely inappropriate—"

"So was fucking his publicist during our engagement," I counter, voice crystal clear. "But we all have different definitions of inappropriate, don't we?"

The chapel explodes in gasps. Social currency I can cash in later.

Aaron’s jaw tightens—that same tension I'd seen the night I told him about the miscarriage. Not grief. Relief. The look of a man who'd just dodged a bullet shaped like forever.

"Kenya, please." His voice cracks. "This isn't about us."

I take another step forward, the cathedral ceiling suddenly too heavy, too holy for what I'm about to say. "No? Then why did you wait until our due date to schedule your wedding?"

The silence is absolute. Even the organist looks stunned.

"You think I didn't notice? Today. The exact day our child would have been born."

The bride's perfect face crumbles. She didn't know. Of course she didn't.

I lower my phone. "Tell her about the hospital, Aaron. Tell her how you left to 'get coffee' and I didn't see you for three hours." My voice doesn't shake. I've rehearsed this moment too many times in therapy sessions I pretended not to need. "Tell her how you said it was probably 'for the best' since we were so busy with the holiday collection launch."

He stands frozen at the altar, his perfect vows forgotten.

"Hey besties," I purr to the camera, voice smooth as lip gloss over bruises. My finger flicks to switch from photo to video mode. "This is what betrayal looks like, in case anyone forgot."

The comment feed explodes: 🔥🔥🔥 / Is this real?! / GIRL WHAT

I tilt my phone just so, capturing Aaron's face draining of color like expensive champagne from a flipped glass. The bride—Alessandra? Alexandra?—clutches her bouquet like it might shield her from the blast radius of my truth.

"What do we think of the decor?" I pan across the chapel, stopping at a particularly gaudy flower arrangement. "Ten thousand dollars of someone's daddy's money, and it still looks like a funeral home threw up."

My mascara's waterproof, but my heart isn't. Years in front of cameras have taught me how to keep my voice steady while my insides collapse.

I zoom in on the couple, then flip the camera to myself. I look good. That's what matters, right? The Givenchy dress I bought three days ago hugs every curve that survived the post-miscarriage weight loss. My hair is pulled into a sleek bun that says "I came here to read a eulogy, not attend a celebration."

"The bride didn't know, by the way." I whisper into the mic like I'm sharing gossip over brunch. "You can see it on her face. Imagine finding out at your own wedding that your groom scheduled your special day to coincide with when his ex would have given birth."

But my hands are shaking. Behind the careful framing, my knuckles turn white around my phone. Because behind the smirk, I'm unraveling.

"Get her out of here!" someone shouts, and I laugh, the sound hollow.

"Oh, honey, I've been trying to leave this story for a year," I respond, without looking away from my followers. "But some chapters refuse to end properly."

Aaron steps forward, off the altar. "Kenya, please—this is between us."

"Nothing's just between us anymore." I angle the phone to catch his approach. "Not since you made our private pain your public schedule."

I don't know if I want to ruin his day—or if I just want someone to notice that mine never ended.

The guests are frozen like extras in a bad rom-com. Every face a different flavor of shock—some delicious, some disappointing. Aaron’s mother is halfway through a hissed "security!" when I grab a bottle of Dom Pérignon off the reception table. It's heavy in my hand, cool against my palm.

"You always did love a dramatic exit, Aaron," I say, my voice dripping with disdain. "Remember Paris?"

His eyes widen. He knows exactly what I mean. That night in the hotel when he'd stormed out, leaving me with a pregnancy test in one hand and room service champagne in the other.

I swing the bottle by its neck—and shatter it across the centerpiece. The sound is magnificent. Better than the glass-break sound effect they add to reality TV fights. This is authentic destruction.

Flowers fly. Glass glints. My rage is confetti, spectacular and impossible to clean up properly. White orchids speckled with champagne that cost more per drop than most people's hourly wage. Crystal shards catching light like the diamonds Aaron never gave me.

"That's for our baby," I whisper, but the acoustics in this place are excellent. Everyone hears. Some people scream. Some applaud. One bridesmaid—the petite one with the septum piercing who clearly got squeezed into that pastel monstrosity against her will—whispers "queen" under her breath.

The comment feed on my livestream explodes:

OHMYGOD

SHE REALLY DID THAT

someone send this to TMZ

Aaron lunges forward, but his best man catches his arm. Smart move. My lawyer would love nothing more than to add assault to our ongoing litigation.

"Kenya, you need help," he hisses.

I adjust my earring, tilt my chin up. "I needed help when I was bleeding in that hospital bed. This? This is justice."

I don't run. I pose. One hand on hip, chin slightly lifted. The same angle that sold out that Fenty collection last spring. I hold it for three perfect seconds—just enough for screenshots to capture the devastation behind me.

And then I walk out like the villain in a limited series—with a soundtrack, a following, and a lawsuit forming in real time. My heels click against angrily, each step a punctuation mark to this chapter of my life.

The next morning, my iced matcha tastes like moral ambiguity. I sip it on my balcony, letting the morning sun warm my face while my phone vibrates itself into oblivion on the glass table beside me. The world is still spinning, which seems unfair considering I've personally blown up at least three corners of the internet.

My phone lights up again. Tasha.

We're trending. Again.

I snort. "Trending." Such a clean word for the mess I've created. I swipe through notifications—seventeen missed calls, thirty-eight texts, and a DM from a reality show producer asking if I'd consider becoming a "special guest villain" on their next season.

"At least someone appreciates my talents," I mutter to no one, scrolling past the death threats to find the brand deal cancellations. Two skincare lines, one athleisure collection. My bank account whispers a gentle warning.

Tasha calls. I let it ring three times before answering.

"Damage report?"

"Oh, now you answer." Her voice carries that particular blend of exasperation and calculation I've come to recognize as her business tone. "The video's at fourteen million views. Three national outlets picked it up. Your follower count is up six hundred thousand since yesterday."

"And the bad news?"

"Kenya." She pauses. "I respect the nuclear option, but this wasn't strategic. This was..."

"What? Human? Messy? Not brand-appropriate?" I laugh, the sound brittle against the morning quiet. "Don't worry, I'll monetize my breakdown by Friday."

An hour later, my doorbell rings. The courier doesn't make eye contact as he hands me a thick manila envelope. I sign for it with a flourish, like it's a gift and not what I know it is—the legal equivalent of a guillotine.

Back inside, I spread the papers across my white granite countertop. The notification is clean, clinical, and full of words like "irreparable harm" and "libelous conduct." Aaron's lawyers work fast. The temporary restraining order means I can't mention him online, in person, or apparently in my own thoughts if they had their way.

I snap a photo of myself holding the papers, careful to blur the text just enough to avoid further legal trouble. I post it with the caption: Wouldn't be the first time I caused irreparable harm in couture.

The likes flood in immediately. The comments section becomes a battlefield of support and condemnation. I close the app.

The silence in my apartment is so loud it makes my ears ring. Without the constant validation of notifications, I'm suddenly aware of everything else—the empty wine glasses from last night, the dress I wore to the wedding crumpled on my bedroom floor, the fact that I haven't really slept in thirty-six hours.

I walk to my desk drawer and pull it open. The wedding invitation is still there, cream-colored card stock with gold foil lettering. I pretended I burned it in an Instagram story last week—filmed myself holding a lighter to a different piece of paper, one that wasn't embedded with memories.

I run my finger over the embossed letters. It still smells like him, that particular mix of cedar and privilege. It still feels like goodbye.

Why does it still hurt so much?