Ryan's Choice: Chloe Over Us

I stood alone in the center of the grand ballroom, my white satin gown pooling around my feet like spilled milk. The chandelier lights caught the beadwork on my bodice, casting tiny rainbows across the empty tables. Three hundred white roses—Ryan's extravagant gesture—perfumed the air with a scent that now felt sickeningly sweet.

This was supposed to be my wedding day.

A server approached, his expression carefully neutral. "Ms. Morgan, would you like me to..." He gestured vaguely at the untouched champagne tower.

"Leave it," I whispered, my throat tight. "Just leave everything."

Behind me, the last of our guests were filtering out. Their whispers reached me in fragments, sharp as broken glass.

"Third postponement..."

"That poor girl..."

"Something about his ex having an emergency..."

I closed my eyes, feeling the familiar ache spread through my chest. Ryan was with Chloe. Again. Always Chloe.

My sister would have known what to say. She would have taken my face in her hands and told me to walk away, that love shouldn't hurt this much. But my sister was gone—because of a doctor who wasn't there when she needed him. Because Ryan had sent him to Chloe instead.

My phone buzzed in the hidden pocket of my dress. I pulled it out, hope fluttering briefly before dying as I read the text.

*So sorry, Izzy. Chloe's having a really bad episode. Can't leave her like this. We'll reschedule. Promise. Love you.*

I slipped off my heels, feeling the cool marble against my bare feet, and walked out of the empty ballroom, trailing my dreams behind me like the train of my unworn wedding veil.

* * *

The elevator to Ryan's penthouse felt like a coffin, rising sixty floors above Chicago's glittering skyline. I hadn't changed out of my wedding dress. Let him see what he'd done. Let him face it.

I used my key and entered silently. The penthouse was dim, lit only by the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. And there they were, on the midnight blue velvet sofa that we had picked out together.

Ryan sat with his back to me, his suit jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up. Chloe was curled against him, her head on his shoulder, her face tear-streaked but serene. I watched, frozen in the doorway, as Ryan's hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that made my stomach twist.

"You need to rest," he murmured to her. "I'll stay as long as you need me."

Neither of them had noticed me yet. I stood there in my wedding gown, a ghost at my own failed celebration, watching the man I loved comfort the woman who had systematically destroyed every important moment of our relationship.

Ryan finally sensed my presence and turned. For just a second, I saw shock in his eyes—maybe even guilt—before it was replaced with that practiced look of patient martyrdom.

"Isabella," he said softly, as if I were the one who needed