Chapter 1

Every bridal boutique in New York prays I'll walk through their door, because I pay in full and never use the service.

That's because on every single shoot day, my fiancé finds a brand-new excuse not to show up.

This is the 33rd time Ethan Caldwell has left me standing alone in a bridal shop because of Tiffany Sinclair.

I call him. His voice is flat, distracted.

"Tiff just wanted some fresh coconut water, babe. Go easy on her."

"I already flew down to Malibu with her. I really can't get back. Let's reschedule the shoot in a week."

Then Tiffany snatches the phone.

"Oh my God, you're really calling about this? You should be used to canceling these shoots by now."

In the background, Ethan laughs — soft, doting. A tone I've never heard him use with me.

I hang up. The boutique attendant gives me that practiced, sympathetic smile.

"Miss Lawson, you can cancel the shoot, but the deposit is non-refundable."

This time, I don't take off the dress and walk out. I smile, and dial a number.

Within minutes, Ethan's best friend, Hunter Brooks, is standing in the boutique doorway.

Under a dozen stunned stares, I slip my arm through his—his hand is shaking with excitement—and turn to the attendant.

"Okay. We can start now."

…

It's evening by the time we finish.

I change out of the gown, sink into the lounge sofa, and casually leave a five-star review for the boutique on my phone.

The review goes live. Ten seconds later, Ethan's name flashes on my screen.

But it's Tiffany's syrupy voice that comes through.

"Chloe, you're really shooting wedding photos alone and writing reviews about it? Doesn't it feel a little pathetic?"

I lean back into the sofa. "Not as pathetic as you."

"My review went live ten seconds ago and you're already calling. Watching my every post like some creepy little stalker — who's the pathetic one here?"

She loses it.

"I wasn't stalking you! It just showed up on my screen, okay?!"

I'm not done with her. "Malibu is across the country. Do I look three years old to you?"

She scrambles. "I — I just forgot to turn off my location! What's it to you?!"

I hang up.

Seconds later, Ethan's text lights up my screen, dripping with blame.

[Chloe, do you have ANY idea how hard it is to calm Tiff down?]

[She called you because she cares. Why would you snap at her? Now I have to fix what you broke. Happy?]

I don't reply. Instead, I open Instagram and post the digital wedding invite the boutique sent me.

Caption short and sweet:

Friends — see you all this weekend at the wedding.

The comments explode.

[OMG CHLOE!! You and Ethan are FINALLY tying the knot?? Congrats babe!!]

[Wait — I thought you two broke up?? You're really getting married?? I'll be there!!]

I'm about to start replying when Ethan's comment shoots straight to the top — colder than his text, in front of everyone.

[Chloe, are you out of your mind? I'm in Malibu with Tiff. I'm NOT flying back this weekend. Stop being so delusional.]

[For the record—clear this up. Tell everyone you made the wedding up.]

The thread goes silent for a beat. Then more notifications flood in.

I just repost the invite. Same caption.

Friends — see you all this weekend at the wedding