Five years ago.
"Miss, where is your groom?"
Gianna heard the priest's whisper above the thudding of her own heart, felt him keeping his head close just enough to hear her answer, yet her tongue stayed tied.
What was there to say?
That her fiancé was on his way? That maybe there was traffic? That maybe there had been an emergency?
But all those excuses had already been given—and more—in the space of the four hours she had been standing on the altar, alone, in a white gown that now felt like a cage.
A cage that held heat. One that suffocated. One that clung to her every curve until her back was damp, her thighs were damp, her armpits were itchy, and her fingers were trembling around the bouquet she no longer had the strength to hold.
Her eyes were tired too—tired of staring at the door he was supposed to walk in from.
She had been holding in the tears, refusing to believe he would leave her here today, especially when he had been the sole orchestrator of the event. And yet…
She bit her lower lip, painfully aware of the few guests getting restless.
They were all from her side: her parents, a few friends, and family that were not really family.
He had claimed none of his own people would support the marriage if they knew. That it was better they married first, then submitted the certificate to his father.
Gianna wouldn't have believed such childish gibberish in this 21st century, but having seen firsthand how parental influence had twisted her best friend's marriage, she was left with no choice.
She just loved him so much.
Theirs had been a whirlwind romance—one that began on a dating site—but that had not dampened the intensity between them. If anything, it had intensified it, almost to obsession after their first meet‐up.
"Miss…" the priest murmured again.
Gianna sighed wearily, remembering that his head was still inclined toward her. "I don't know, Father. I don't know."
As she spoke, she toyed with the phone her mother had allowed her to have after the first hour passed with no sign of her groom. She dialed the number again—for the sixtieth time.
Nothing.
The fear clogged her throat. Had he been in an accident? Had something happened while she was here waiting and cussing him out?
Just then, her phone lit up with a text message from an unknown number.
Biting down on her lower lip, she clicked it open.
Her mother noticed the tremble in her hands—the first sign that something was terribly wrong.
Without caring about the murmurs that were now making Gianna's ears itch, Karen rose, glided toward her daughter, and gently grabbed her hand. "Gia, what's the problem?"
But Gianna was dumbstruck. And so was the nosy priest still leaning over her shoulder.
She handed the phone to her mother.
The guests got their confirmation that something was wrong when Karen released a loud cuss word, forgetting she was in a church, before a priest.
"That bastard! How dare he?!"
Her husband hurried over as the murmurs grew. He read the message once, then—-ever the patient one—asked his daughter if she was sure the text came from her fiancé and not some impersonator.
After all, the message read:
Stay away from me, you gold-digging slut.
The wedding is cancelled.
That snapped Gianna out of her shock.
She took back her phone and dialed the number. It rang twice before it connected.
"Hello…"
It was him.
Her heart shattered.
It was him. That voice.
"Hello…" he said again, this time irritated, impatient.
Did he know it was her? His fiancée?
His supposed love of his life?
The woman he once claimed he couldn't sleep without hearing from?
Had he blocked her old number?
Had he truly changed his contact overnight?
The phone cut off while she was spiraling.
Her father tapped her cheek. "Focus, Gia. Call him back."
She did, aware of the guests gathering around her like vultures.
She put the call on speaker, not in the mood to recap whatever would transpire, not in the mood to talk.
"Hello…" he answered on the third ring. "Is this a fraud? Because I swear—"
"Zane, it's me." She cut him off softly. Her heart broke further when silence met her words. "Where are you? Did you forget what today was? You had a business meeting?"
"Why would you ask that?" he finally spoke. But this time… he sounded gloatful. Resentful. Bitter.
What had she done wrong?
"Trying to keep tabs on my money?"
Gianna frowned. "What are you talking about? I've never been interested in your money!"
"Well, it's good that I've discovered your aim. Better that it's today, so you can have a taste of what it feels like to be played." A cold pause. "You slut."
"Now, young man, I'd rather you don't insult my daughter. I'm sure this is a misunderstanding…" her father began, but Zane scoffed loudly.
"You should be ashamed of yourself, old fool. Trying to get into Whitman's money through your daughter? You're not fit to…."
"Zane Whitman!" Gianna shouted, unable to take another second of it. "How dare you?!"
"How dare me? How dare you! I loved you! I—"
"Have I asked you for anything in the six months we dated? Have I ever asked for the gifts you gave me?" she snapped back.
There was a pause on his end, then his voice returned colder, sharper. "A game well played then, slut."
Gianna shut her eyes. She wanted—needed—to stop the dam from bursting, but nothing cooperated. The tears slipped past her lashes, streaking her makeup, dripping onto the gown worth ten times her salary.
"You will regret this," she whispered. She didn't know how. She didn't know when. But the fury had slipped out.
He laughed. A sound so entirely different from the man she once knew that it chilled her through the lace of her dress.
"Dream on, gold-digger. Don't call this number again. You and your parents can go to hell."
The call ended.
"Gia…" Karen whispered, heart shattering for her daughter—her beautiful daughter who had been glowing these past few days because of today.
Gianna's teeth clamped shut, her phone clattering to the floor. She was aware of the guests stepping aside, aware of her father—always diplomatic—speaking to them. Apologizing? Explaining? She didn't care.
Her mother helped her to a seat before going to speak to the priest.
So overwhelmed was she that she barely noticed her cousin, Sabrina, approaching until that sickly sweet voice pierced the air.
"Ohhh, my dear cousin… feeling over the moon for a man who thinks you're a slut?"
Gianna stayed silent. She stared at a dot on the floor, wishing her best friend was here. Except Athena knew nothing about this wedding Zane had sprung on her days ago, didn't even know the true identity of the mystery man who had set her life aflame.
And Gianna hadn't wanted to disturb her, especially when Athena was in the hospital, under critical surveillance because of her babies.
Sabrina continued anyway. "I watched you gallivant around, picking costly dresses, flying across the world…" She scoffed. "I'm glad he sees you for the bitch you are. For the fake you are. Thinking you're better than everyone else—"
Gianna would never understand Sabrina's obsession with competition. Why she always felt they were rivals in some imaginary race.
"Go away, Sabrina," she finally muttered.
Sabrina's face twisted. She stomped Gianna's leg with her heeled sandal—hard enough to bruise—but Gianna didn't flinch. She didn't move. She didn't feel.
She was numb.
Sabrina cursed some more and stormed out, vowing—loudly—to get Zane for herself.
Moments later, Karen returned. "Let's go, my love. You need to remove that gown." Her voice shook with fury. "I'll make sure it's laundered well and sent back to that bastard. The audacity! Did we tell him we are starving?"
Outside, they entered the family car. The drive home was filled with a painful silence—until the trailer appeared from nowhere. Until her father realized the brakes weren't responding.
"Honey, what are you doing?!" Karen screamed. "Apply the brakes!"
"I'm trying… it's not working…"
Everything happened in a split second.
Gianna knew she would remember this moment until she died, if she didn't die right now:
The crash.
The metal tearing.
The screams.
The blood.
Her hand instinctively covering her stomach as if she could preserve life there.
This was her fault. She chanted, just before everything went black.