My sister labeled me “mentally unstable” and barred me from her lavish wedding. Our parents backed her, saying they didn’t want a failure spoiling the celebration. I said nothing and let their cruelty stand. But on the wedding day, the groom shut everything down after a fire at the venue. When they discovered the reason, they rushed to me for answers—only to learn that not everyone deserves another chance.

Fire? Lucas—Alyssa’s groom—was the calm one, the golden-boy attorney she’d bragged about for months. I stood up so fast my chair scraped the concrete.

Then my mom called. Not the gentle voice from before. This one was sharp with panic. “Emma,” she cried, “where are you? We need you. Please come—right now. We need you more than ever.”

And before I could ask why, my dad got on the line and said, “They found out. They know what you know.”

I drove toward the venue with my hands trembling on the steering wheel, even though every instinct told me to turn around. The address Jenna texted was a restored hotel on the river—glass walls, white stone, valet line. I’d seen it only in Alyssa’s Pinterest boards, because she’d made sure I never got the official invitation.

Three blocks away, traffic stopped. Smoke rose above the rooftops in a gray ribbon, and red lights strobed against the early-evening sky. When I finally parked and ran toward the crowd, I saw guests clustered on the sidewalk in formalwear, some barefoot, some crying, all filming with their phones. The hotel’s ballroom doors were propped open, sprinklers dripping. A section of decorative draping had burned black, and the air smelled like wet fabric and melted wax.

Continue reading…