Her Best Friend's Wife

The Vera Wang dress hung on the closet door like a white ghost.

Lita Martinez stared at it, her coffee growing cold in her hands, and wondered if the champagne from last night was making her nauseous or if it was something else entirely.

Something like guilt.

You're going to be the most beautiful bride Manhattan has ever seen, her sister Melissa gushed from across the room, where she was arranging white roses in crystal vases. Marcus is so lucky. God, when I think about that penthouse, the cars, the trips to Europe... She sighed dramatically. You're living every girl's dream, Lita.

Every girl's dream. The words echoed hollowly as Lita pressed her hand against her stomach, where she could still feel the ghost of Damian's touch. Twelve hours ago, she had been in his arms. Twelve hours ago, she had made the biggest mistake or perhaps the most honest decision of her life.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, and her heart lurched. But it was just the wedding coordinator confirming the timeline. Not Damian. He hadn't texted since that call at 3 AM, when his voice had been raw with emotion and regret and something that sounded dangerously close to love.

Are you sure this is what you want? He'd whispered into the phone, and she'd heard the sheets rustling in the background, could picture him in his bed, alone now, probably staring at the ceiling the way she had been.

She had hung up without answering, but the question had echoed through what little remained of the night.

Earth to Lita, Melissa's voice cut through her spiral. The makeup artist will be here in an hour. You need to eat something. And why do you look like you haven't slept?

Because I didn't sleep, Lita wanted to say. Because I spent the night before my wedding in another man's bed, and now I'm supposed to walk down the aisle and pretend my life isn't falling apart.

Just wedding nerves, she managed, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack her face in half.

She was. God help her, she pictured Damian's eyes the way they lingered on her at the goodbye dinner, soft and aching, as if every glance was a silent plea not to let go, the sadness in his eyes when he'd toasted to her happiness, the way his hand had trembled when he asked her to walk him home one last time.

She told herself it was just a walk. Just one last moment with her best friend before everything changed.

But when they reached his apartment building and he asked if she wanted to come up for coffee, they both knew it wasn't about coffee. And when he cupped her face in his hands and asked, "Are you sure?" she answered by kissing him with eight years of suppressed longing.

The sex had been desperate, fierce, tender, everything she imagined and nothing like the careful, scheduled intimacy she shared with Marcus. Afterward,