Chapter 1
The morning light cut sharp across the hardwood floor of the bridal suite, illuminating the heavy dust motes dancing in the air. Elena stood by the window, her breath hitching slightly as the silk of her gown whispered against the sill. In her left hand, a heavy cluster of white and pink roses anchored her trembling fingers. In her right, a folded piece of cream-colored stationery held a secret that threatened to dismantle everything.
The heavy oak door swung open without a knock. Mark strode into the room, his tuxedo jacket slung over one shoulder, his tie already loosened in a display of casual arrogance that always grated on her nerves.
"What are you doing hiding in here, El?" Mark asked, his voice sharp and impatient, lacking any of the warmth a groom should possess on his wedding day. "Guests are already taking their seats. Your mother is having a meltdown downstairs because the florist messed up the centerpieces."
Elena did not turn immediately. She kept her gaze fixed on the paper in her hand, feeling the familiar knot of dread tighten in her stomach.
"I am not hiding, Mark," she said, her voice chillingly calm as she finally rotated to face him. "I am thinking. There is a vast difference."
Mark scoffed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Thinking? Now? This isn't the time for existential dread, Elena. We have a guest list of three hundred people waiting out there. The catering alone costs more than my first car. Put the bouquet down and let's go."
"Did you write this?" Elena asked softly, lifting the folded note an inch.
Mark stopped pacing. His eyes darted to the cream stationery, a micro-expression of absolute panic flashing across his features before he forced his face back into an annoyed smirk. "What is that? Some sentimental garbage your college friends sent you? Toss it. We're on a strict schedule."
"It was left on my vanity," Elena countered, taking a slow step toward him. "It describes the exact spot behind the old boathouse where we supposedly watched the Perseid meteor shower four years ago. Except for one detail, Mark. I was never at the boathouse that night. You were in Chicago on a business trip. Or so you told me."
Mark’s jaw tightened. "Oh, for crying out loud. It's a metaphor, Elena. Poets use them. People write things down loosely after four years. Memory gets hazy."
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"Memory doesn't get hazy about who you were standing with when you fell in love," Elena snapped back, the restrained emotion in her voice finally cracking into sharp fury. "The handwriting matches the journal I found in your desk last week—the journal belonging to your estranged brother, Julian, who allegedly died in a climbing accident six months ago."
Mark froze dead in his tracks, his face draining of all color as the silence in the room became suffocating.
