Defending Love with a Knife

The cathedral stretched before me like a gilded cage, every pew packed with faces I'd known my entire life. Chandeliers dripped crystal light across marble floors, and white roses—thousands of them—perfumed the air with a sweetness that made my stomach turn. I stood at the altar in my mother's restored lace gown, my fingers clutching the bouquet so tightly the stems bit into my palms.

Jameson stood across from me, devastatingly handsome in his tailored tuxedo, but his eyes were flat. Empty. He hadn't looked at me once since the ceremony began, his jaw clenched in that familiar way that made the muscle in his cheek twitch. I told myself it was nerves. That once we said our vows, once this was finally real, he would soften. He would remember why we'd fallen in love.

Father Benedict's voice rolled through the cathedral, steady and warm. "Jameson Morgan, do you take Clare Hughes to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The moment I'd dreamed about since I was a girl twisting my mother's necklace between anxious fingers, imagining the day someone would love me completely, irrevocably.

Jameson's mouth opened. The silence stretched so long I heard someone cough in the third row.

"No."

The single word detonated through the cathedral like a gunshot. My bouquet slipped from my hands, white roses scattering across the altar steps.

"I'm sorry, what?" Father Benedict stammered, his face draining of color.

"I said no." Jameson's voice was sharp, commanding, the same tone he used in boardrooms to crush competitors. "This wedding is cancelled."

The cathedral erupted. Gasps. Whispers. Someone's phone clattered to the floor. But I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, frozen in my mother's lace as Jameson turned away from me—away from us—and walked down the aisle.

He stopped at the front pew. At her.

Emerald Silva rose gracefully, her pale pink dress clinging to her curves, tears streaming down her face in a perfect, delicate display. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips as Jameson pulled her into his arms, and the cathedral watched as he held her the way he'd never held me. Protective. Reverent. Real.

"This is the woman who understands me," Jameson announced to the crowd, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Emerald sees me for who I truly am, not who she wants me to be."

Emerald buried her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking with what everyone would believe were sobs of overwhelming emotion. But I saw it—just for a second before she hid her face—the triumphant curl of her lips. The cold glitter of victory in her eyes as they met mine.

My legs gave out. I would have collapsed right there on the altar if my bridesmaid Sophie hadn't caught me, her grip bruising on my arms.

"Clare, oh god, Clare—"

But I couldn't hear her over the roaring in my ears, couldn't see anything except Jameson's back as he walked out of the cathedral with Emerald tucked