Escaping Wedding Humiliation

I stood alone in the center of the Plaza Hotel's grand ballroom, a vision in white that no one remained to see. My ninety-ninth wedding dress—a hand-beaded Vera Wang creation that had taken six months to complete—felt like a mockery now, its weight crushing against my ribs with each shallow breath I managed to take.

Ninetieth. Ninth. Time.

The chairs, arranged in perfect rows and adorned with white roses and silk ribbons, sat empty. The string quartet had long since packed away their instruments. Only the champagne flutes remained on the tables, untouched, the bubbles gone flat—much like my dreams.

"Poor Isabella Martinez," came a whisper from the doorway, where a cluster of Manhattan's elite lingered, their designer heels and Italian loafers not quite crossing the threshold. "Abandoned at the altar again."

"Ninety-nine times," another voice added, not bothering to lower her tone. "You'd think she'd learn."

I lifted my chin, fighting the trembling of my lower lip. The mascara I'd so carefully applied hours earlier had carved black rivers down my cheeks. I could feel it—sticky, humiliating evidence of tears I'd promised myself I wouldn't shed this time.

A camera flash exploded from the doorway, then another. The vultures had arrived.

"Ms. Martinez! Look this way!"

"Isabella! Any comment on Mr. Sterling's absence?"

"Will there be a hundredth ceremony?"

My stomach lurched. A hundredth ceremony. As if this public evisceration of my dignity hadn't been thorough enough already. As if Nathaniel Sterling hadn't made his point with crystal clarity through ninety-nine deliberate, calculated acts of cruelty.

I spotted Marco Vance among the photographers, his predatory smile visible behind his camera lens. Tomorrow's tabloid headline was already taking shape in his eyes. I knew his work well by now—how he'd frame the shot to capture my devastation in high-definition detail, how he'd pair it with some cutting headline about New York's most rejected bride.

I couldn't face them. Not again. Not like this.

Without a word, I gathered the voluminous skirts of my gown and fled toward the service corridor at the back of the ballroom. My heels clicked against the marble floor, the sound echoing in the cavernous space like a countdown to my escape. Behind me, I heard the rush of footsteps as the photographers gave chase, hungry for more shots of my humiliation.

I pushed through the heavy door marked "Staff Only" and found myself in a narrow hallway lined with stacked chairs and folded tables. The industrial lighting cast harsh shadows across my wedding gown, transforming the delicate ivory into a sickly yellow. I pressed my back against the wall, trying to steady my breathing as I listened for pursuit.

Instead, I heard laughter—bright, triumphant female laughter that sent ice through my veins. I knew that laugh. I'd heard it at every charity gala, every social function for the past two years. Victoria Ashford.

The sound came from behind a partially open door further down the corridor. I inched closer, my heart pounding so loudly I