Chapter 3

The next morning, Marco unlocked my bedroom door with the spare key.

I had barely slept. My eyes were swollen, my throat raw, and the wedding dress lay over the chair like evidence from a crime scene.

He walked in without asking.

“Get dressed,” he said.

I looked at him from the bed. “Why?”

“Camille wants to have lunch together.”

I stared at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

There was none.

“She wants to have lunch,” I repeated.

“She is trying to make peace.”

“She cried in the hallway until you missed our wedding.”

His jaw tightened. “Do not twist kindness into malice.”

I laughed once. “Kindness?”

Marco’s patience snapped.

He crossed the room, grabbed my arm, and pulled me upright. “She was sick, Shania. You slapped her hand when she tried to apologize. You humiliated her when she already feels guilty.”

“I barely touched her.”

His hand struck my face.

The sound was small compared to the silence that followed.

My cheek burned. My eyes watered from the force of it, but for several seconds I could only stare at him.

Marco’s expression flickered. Regret almost appeared.

Then he buried it.

“That was for your behavior last night,” he said. “Don’t make me do it again.”

Something in me emptied.

By noon, I was sitting in the back seat of Marco’s car, watching Camille lean into the passenger seat as if she owned every space beside him.

She wore no makeup, but her lips were pink. Her fever had disappeared as quickly as it came.

“Shania,” she said, turning back with a cautious smile, “I really hope today can be a new start. I don’t want Marco to be torn between us.”

“Then stop pulling.”

Her eyes reddened instantly.

Marco’s voice cut through the car. “Apologize.”

I turned to the window.

Snow had begun falling by the time we reached the riverside restaurant. The road outside the parking lot was slick, headlights reflecting across the wet black asphalt.

Camille stepped out first and immediately shivered.

Marco took off his coat and placed it over her shoulders.

I stood behind them in the wind, wearing the thin dress he had ordered me to change into because “a gloomy outfit would make Camille uncomfortable.”

We crossed at the light.

Halfway across, a truck horn split the air.

Everything happened too fast.

Camille froze.

So did I.

The truck came sliding toward us, too large, too close, its headlights blazing white through the snow.

Marco shouted.

For one heartbeat, he stood between us.

Then he ran toward Camille.

He wrapped both arms around her and dragged her backward, shielding her with his body.

I was still in the road.

I remember thinking that I should move.

I remember my shoes slipping.

Then the truck hit me.

Pain flashed white, then red, then nothing at all.

When I woke, the world smelled of disinfectant.

A nurse stood by my bed adjusting the IV. She looked surprised when my eyes opened.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Another few inches and it would have been much worse.”

Lucky.

I turned my head.

The chair beside the bed was empty.

“Was anyone here?” I asked.

The nurse hesitated.

“No.”

Of course.

Marco texted me near midnight.

Camille was scared after the accident. I’ll stay with her tonight. You’re strong, Shania. Rest well.

Strong.

I lay there with bruised ribs, a bandaged wrist, and pain blooming through every breath, and suddenly remembered a different Marco.

The boy who had once climbed down a muddy slope because I slipped near a cliff.

The boy who came back with bleeding hands and held me like he would break if I disappeared.

The boy who said he would never let danger reach me first.

I closed my eyes.

That boy was gone.

The man who replaced him had watched headlights swallow me and chosen Camille.

The next afternoon, Anastacia called.

“My birthday dinner is tonight,” she said gently. “I know you’re hurt, but come if you can. I want to see you.”

I should have refused.

But after my parents died, Anastacia was the one who helped manage the estate until I could sign documents myself. She sat with me through legal meetings I did not understand and sent soup when I forgot to eat.

So I went.

At the entrance to her ballroom, I heard her arguing with Marco inside the study.

“You left Shania in the road,” Anastacia said. “For Camille.”

Marco sounded tired. “Camille was closer.”

“Do not insult me with excuses. Shania is your fiancée.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

My hand tightened around the gift box.

Marco continued, each word clear.

“Camille is easier. She needs me. She understands what I went through after the cruise. Shania only makes me feel guilty.”

Anastacia’s voice trembled. “You don’t mean that.”

“Maybe I do.”

I turned away before my knees failed.

Inside the ballroom, Camille sat beside Marco at the main table, wrapped in his coat, accepting everyone’s concern over her “near accident.”

No one asked about mine.