After My Groom Saved His Mistress on Our Wedding Day

The morning light streaming through the Plaza Hotel's bridal suite windows should have felt like a blessing. Instead, it illuminated the wreckage of eight years.

Lance's phone wouldn't stop buzzing on the vanity. He'd left it there when he went downstairs to check on the reception setup, and the insistent vibration scraped against my nerves like nails on glass. I was adjusting my veil when the screen lit up again. And again.

H: Please don't do this

H: I can't live without you

H: If you marry her, I'll jump. I swear I will.

My fingers went numb. I scrolled up, watching months of my life rewrite themselves in real time. "She's boring." "Just an obligation." "You're the one I think about."

The white dress suddenly felt like a straitjacket.

I found them on the rooftop terrace. Lance stood three feet from the ledge, hands raised like he was approaching a wild animal. The woman perched on the stone railing had dark hair whipping in the wind, mascara streaking her face in practiced rivulets.

"Lance." My voice came out steadier than I expected.

He whipped around, and something ugly flashed across his face. Not guilt. Annoyance. "Evie, get back inside."

"Who is she?"

The woman on the ledge let out a theatrical sob. "I'm Haley. His first love. The one he never got over."

Lance's jaw tightened. "You're going to startle her. Just go."

Eight years. Eight years of believing I knew this man, and he was looking at me like I was the problem. Like I was the intruder in my own wedding.

"Choose." The word tasted like ash. "Right now. Her or me."

Haley swayed on the ledge, and Lance lunged—not toward me, but past me. His shoulder caught mine hard enough to send me stumbling into the door frame. Pain bloomed across my hip as I watched him wrap his arms around her, pulling her back to safety.

"I can't let her die," he said, and he wasn't even looking at me anymore.

The guests would arrive in an hour. I could hear the catering staff setting up below, the clink of champagne flutes that would never be raised. My hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together.

"Lance, we need to talk about this."

He finally turned, and his eyes were cold. "Not now. Not here. You're going to ruin everything."

"I'm going to—" The laugh that escaped me sounded broken. "I'm not the one who ruined this."

His hand clamped around my wrist. "Keep your voice down."

He dragged me through the service corridors, past startled staff members who looked away too quickly. My heels caught on the carpet. The white dress tangled around my legs.

"Lance, stop. Please."

We descended into the basement, where the air turned cool and damp. The wine cellar door loomed ahead, heavy oak with iron fixtures. My chest tightened.

"No. Not there. Lance, you know I can't—"

"You need to cool off." His voice was flat,