The Don’s Last Regret

The wedding had been postponed ninety-nine times.

I called the wedding planner and told them to change the bride's name to Ivy Sterling, Charles Hart's childhood sweetheart.

"Donna, are you sure?" the planner asked cautiously. "This time, the Don didn't postpone again."

I heard the surprise in his voice. My answer was calm. "Yes. Change it to Ivy Sterling."

From the very beginning, Charles gave only one instruction for the wedding: "Adjust the decorations according to Ivy's taste."

He explained that Ivy had good taste, that she would only serve as a reference for our wedding. But every choice, the flowers, the favors, the entrance music, was made by Ivy. Even my wedding dress. She had said lightly, "A mermaid silhouette suits her better."

So I decided to give the entire wedding, steeped in her presence, to them.

And I walked away from this farce completely.

From now on, let him keep his old dreams. I will go and enjoy my own boundless sky.

"We'll make the changes immediately. But do we need to inform the Don in advance?"

The wedding planner's voice was careful.

I looked at the screen calmly. "No need."

The call ended. The computer screen went dark.

I looked around the villa, the home Charles and I were supposed to move into next month. Three floors. Every corner dripping with elegance.

But the crystal chandelier in the living room was installed because Ivy said it had "class." The silk bedding in the bedroom was chosen because Ivy said it was "soft on the skin." Even the diffuser by the entrance was Ivy's favorite scent: Bluebell.

I felt like a guest wandering into someone else's territory.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face. On the marble counter lay a used Tom Ford lipstick. The shade was Ivy's signature vintage red. Beside it, a delicate pearl earring.

My phone buzzed. A voice message from Charles.

"Serena, the wedding planner said you contacted them several times today?"

I typed a short reply: "Just a small detail. It's handled."

A few minutes later, he answered with a single word: "Okay."

Then another message. A photo.

Ivy was in a champagne-colored gown, turning in front of a mirror. "Ivy's trying on bridesmaid dresses. The zipper got stuck. I'm helping her." "The boutique has nice pieces. She can't decide which one. Want to come and help her choose?"

I stared at the screen. My hands and feet went cold.

Last week, I went alone to try on my wedding dress. In the fitting room, the intricate lacing choked me. I called him for help. He said, "Serena, ask the staff to help you. Ivy's car broke down. I need to pick her up."

I stood in that mermaid gown, chosen by Ivy, a size too small, for half an hour under the sympathetic gaze of the salesgirls.

And now, he was helping his childhood friend adjust her bridesmaid dress. And he wanted me to come play the audience.

I called