Third Wedding, Right Groom

This was the third time my fiancé, Miles Morretti, had walked away from our wedding—because of his stepsister.

I stood at the altar in my white silk gown, the one I'd spent months choosing, feeling the weight of two hundred pairs of eyes burning into my back.

The morning had been perfect—too perfect, I realized now. The sun streaming through the stained-glass windows, casting rainbow patterns across the marble floor. The scent of white roses and peonies filling the air.

My bridesmaids smiling encouragingly from their places. Even Miles had seemed genuinely present this time, holding my hands, looking into my eyes like he actually saw me.

I should have known better. I should have known that peace with Miles Morretti never lasted long. The officiant's voice had just begun the familiar words—"Miles Morretti, do you take Lila Clement to be your lawfully wedded wife"—when his assistant burst through the chapel doors with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. "Mr. Morretti," the man said, breathless and pale, his tie askew like he'd run the entire way here. "We have an urgent situation." The change in Miles's face was instant and devastating. I'd seen this transformation before—twice before, to be exact—but it still felt like a physical blow every single time.

Concern flooded his features first, then panic, then that peculiar expression of guilt that never seemed directed at me but at some invisible force pulling him away. He pulled his hand from mine, and I felt my fingers go cold despite the warmth of the chapel.

It was like watching a door close, seeing him already mentally leaving, even though his body hadn't moved yet. "What is it?" Miles asked, his voice tight with worry that should have been reserved for our wedding vows. "It's Miss Valeria, sir." The assistant's eyes darted to me briefly, apologetically, before returning to Miles. "She's packed her bags and is heading to the airport.

She's... she's distraught, sir. She says she can't bear to watch you get married. She's talking about leaving the country permanently. She's saying she has nothing left here if you abandon her." Abandon her. As if getting married was an act of betrayal.

My hand shot out and grabbed Miles's wrist before he could take another step. My grip was tight enough that my knuckles turned white, tight enough that I could feel his pulse racing under my fingers. "Don't," I said, my voice low and shaking with barely controlled fury. "Don't you dare leave me here again." Miles turned to me, and for a moment—just a fleeting, heartbreaking moment—I thought I saw genuine anguish in his eyes. Real conflict. Real pain. But I'd learned the hard way that with Miles Morretti, pain didn't equal action. It didn't equal choosing me. "Lila, I'm sorry," he said, already pulling away, already choosing. "I have to—" "If you leave," I interrupted, my voice rising despite myself, despite the two hundred people watching, despite my mother's gasp from the front row, "I