Falling For The Biker: The Vice President's Girl

Wren

"Congratula-" I squint at my screen, the caption refusing to settle.

Tilting the phone, I blink hard and try again. The phone automatically refreshes, and my stomach dips at the video that pops up.

I ditch the caption and watch the video. What's plastered on social media is my fiancé... at the altar with someone that isn't... me.

I close my eyes, hoping I'm wrong and it's just my brain fogging up, as it usually does. When I open them again, the video is still there.

"W-wh-" No words come out. Confusion, hurt, anger, they all slam into me at once. In a minute, I shoot to my feet.

This better be a rehearsal dinner, Tristan. It better be a joke.

My phone rings, and I pick it up without looking, dragging a dress over my head at the same time.

"Wren!" My friend Judi's voice greets me from the other end. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"If you're talking about Tristan then-"

"Yes, I'm talking about Tristan. What the heck is going on, Wren? Did you guys break up?"

I slip into comfortable shoes. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm about to find out. Read me the address, please."

She rattles it off, then adds, "Don't do anything stupid."

"When have I ever done anything stupid?" I roll my eyes, step out of my apartment, hail a cab, and get in.

"I mean, hm," she hums, the line is silent for a beat. "You're right. You're pretty level-headed. Do you need me to come?"

I shake my head but remember she can't see me. "No, thank you, Judi. I'm just going to figure out what this is about, and I'll call you later."

"Alright," she sighs. "I'm sorry, Wren."

My throat tightens and my eyes water. I hang up, watching the road go by while I convince myself everything is one big misunderstanding.

The ring on my finger catches the light, and the weight settles in my mind. I love Tristan. We love each other. He proposed last month. We were supposed to start planning the wedding.

I pull up the video on my phone again, the wedding is still in motion. And it's beautiful, almost like my dream wedding. The woman's face is still in a veil, but Tristan...

He stands there tall, smiley, looking so proud of himself as they recite their vows.

"...Mr Fuller, do you take Miss..."

"Ma'am." The driver interrupts. "We're here."

"Th-thank you," I stammer, handing him some bills, and I scramble my way into the hotel.

The receptionist scans me from head to toe, judging me. I'm sure my simple dress and sandals are not fitting enough for her.

"How can I help you?" She snarks, lips pulled down in distaste.

I ignore her judgmental looks and respond. "I'm here for the wedding? Tristan Fuller and..."

"Your name, please?"

"Wren." I clear my throat. "Wren Carlisle."

My fingers tap on the cubicle, jaw tightening at the sound of