After My Groom Chose His Ex Over Me

The penthouse smells like lilies. I ordered them myself two weeks ago—three hundred stems for the centerpieces, because Sebastian said white flowers photograph best. Now they're wilting in their crystal vases, petals browning at the edges, and the scent makes my stomach turn.

I'm surrounded by spreadsheets. Guest lists. Seating charts. The final RSVP count came in yesterday: four hundred and seventy-three confirmed attendees for what Manhattan's elite are calling the Wedding of the Century. Sebastian Wright, CEO of Wright Enterprises, marrying his devoted fiancée of five years in a ceremony that cost more than most people's houses.

Except Sebastian hasn't been home in twenty-four hours.

His phone goes straight to voicemail. The last text I sent him—asking if he wanted salmon or beef for the rehearsal dinner—sits there with a single gray checkmark. Not delivered. I've called his office three times. His assistant, Caroline, sounds increasingly uncomfortable each time she tells me he's "in meetings."

I should be panicking. I should be calling hospitals, filing missing persons reports, imagining car accidents and muggings. Instead, I'm scrolling through Instagram with my thumb moving on autopilot, searching for something I don't want to find.

The notification appears at 11:47 PM.

Sebastian Wright liked a video.

My finger hovers over the screen. The username makes my chest constrict: @FayeLawson. Sebastian's ex-girlfriend. The woman he dated before me, the one he claimed was "ancient history" when I asked about her two years into our relationship. The one whose name he said in his sleep once, then swore he didn't remember doing it.

I tap the video.

The frame is intimate—a hotel room, judging by the generic beige walls and the corner of a king-sized bed. Faye sits on the edge of the mattress, her dark hair falling over one shoulder, mascara streaking her cheeks. The camera shakes slightly, handheld. Then Sebastian enters the frame.

He's wearing the navy Tom Ford suit I helped him pick out last month. His tie is loosened, top button undone. He sits beside her, and she turns into him like a flower seeking sun. He takes both her hands in his.

"I can't do this," Faye whispers, her voice breaking. "I can't watch you marry someone else."

Sebastian's thumb strokes across her knuckles. The gesture is so familiar it steals my breath—he does that to me when we watch movies, when we're in the back of cars heading to charity galas, when he wants me to know he's present even when his mind is elsewhere.

"You're the one who left," he says, but there's no accusation in it. Only longing.

"I know. I was stupid. I thought—" She breaks off, pressing her free hand to her mouth. "I thought I wanted something else. But it's always been you, Sebastian. It's always been you."

He pulls her into his chest. She sobs against his shoulder, and his hand comes up to cradle the back of her head. The camera catches his face over her shoulder—his eyes are closed, his