Chapter 1
"Get her out of the picture! She makes everything look cheap!"
My hand closed around my stepmother's arm before I even realized how hard I was gripping her.
Evelyn stumbled as I pulled her away from the family-photo lineup.
Her pale-blue dress brushed against one of the gold chairs.
The photographer lowered his camera.
And suddenly, the entire wedding ballroom went silent.
I was twenty-eight years old, wearing a white lace gown that had cost more than most people earned in three months.
My hair was arranged in an elegant updo.
A diamond necklace glittered against my chest.
Everything about my wedding was supposed to be perfect.
The cream-and-gold decorations.
The enormous white flower wall.
The crystal chandeliers.
The carefully selected guests.
And the photographs that would hang in our home for decades.
But Evelyn didn't belong in my perfect picture.
At least, that was what I told myself.
"Nia," she whispered.
Her silver hair was pinned into a neat bun.
Her dress was simple, with no expensive jewelry or designer label.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
"Please, sweetheart. I just wanted one photograph with you."
I tightened my jaw.
"You're not my mother."
Her face crumpled.
A few guests gasped.
I heard someone whisper my name.
But I was too angry to care.
For years, I had imagined my wedding day.
I had dreamed of walking down the aisle while everyone admired me.
I wanted people to see how far I had come.
I wanted the photographs to prove that I was no longer the poor girl who wore secondhand dresses to school.
Evelyn reminded me of everything I wanted to forget.
The tiny apartment.
The worn-out furniture.
The cheap birthday cakes.
The evenings when she came home exhausted from cleaning offices.
I didn't want those memories standing beside me in an expensive wedding photograph.
"Evelyn, please move," I snapped.
She reached toward me.
"Nia, I raised you."
I pulled away.
"And I appreciate that. But today isn't about you."
Her lips trembled.
Then she looked toward the photographer.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
She stepped backward.
Her heel caught the edge of the carpet.
Her knees buckled.
I watched her begin to fall.
Before I could react, Marcus rushed forward.
He caught her beneath the arms and lowered her gently into a nearby chair.
"Evelyn!"
My fiancé's voice echoed across the ballroom.
"Are you okay?"
Evelyn nodded weakly.
But tears were streaming down her face.
"I'm fine, sweetheart."
Marcus knelt beside her.
"No, you're not."
He looked toward me.
And the expression on his face made my stomach tighten.
I'd seen Marcus angry before.
But never like that.
He was thirty-two, tall and athletic, wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.
A white rose boutonniere rested against his lapel.
He had looked so handsome that morning.
When I saw him waiting beside the altar, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive.
Now he stared at me as though he didn't recognize me.
"Nia."
I folded my arms.
"What?"
He stood slowly.
"Did you really just humiliate the woman who helped raise you at your own wedding?"
I felt heat rush into my cheeks.
"Marcus, don't make a scene."
He stared at me.
"Don't make a scene?"
"She doesn't belong in the formal family pictures."
"Why?"
I glanced toward the photographer.
Then at the guests.
"Because I want everything to look perfect."
Marcus looked toward Evelyn.
She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, trying desperately to stop crying.
Then he turned back to me.
"She raised you."
I rolled my eyes.
"She's not real family."
The words came out sharper than I intended.
But I didn't take them back.
Marcus went completely still.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then he reached toward his lapel.
He slowly removed the white rose boutonniere.
My heart skipped.
"Marcus?"
He didn't answer.
He walked toward an empty gold chair and placed the flower carefully on its seat.
The movement was so calm that it frightened me more than shouting would have.
"Marcus, what are you doing?"
He turned toward me.
"If that's how you treat family, I'm not becoming yours."
My mouth fell open.
"What?"
He looked at Evelyn again.
Then at me.
"I won't marry someone who thinks another person's dignity is less important than a photograph."
The ballroom erupted into whispers.
I felt hundreds of eyes turning toward me.
"Marcus, stop!"
He didn't move.
I stepped closer.
"You can't cancel our wedding over one argument!"
His expression hardened.
"One argument?"
I swallowed.
He continued.
"You grabbed an elderly woman, dragged her out of a photograph, and told everyone she wasn't your family."
I looked around desperately.
The photographer lowered his camera.
My bridesmaids stared at the floor.
Evelyn covered her mouth.
I wanted everything to return to normal.
I wanted the music to start.
I wanted Marcus to take my hand.
I wanted the guests to forget what they had seen.
But he wasn't finished.
"And before you ask me to stay," he said coldly, "tell everyone who actually paid for this wedding."
My blood turned cold.
I stared at him.
"What?"
Marcus took one step closer.
"You heard me."
My throat tightened.
I looked toward Evelyn.
She was crying silently.
I looked back at Marcus.
He knew.
Somehow, he knew.
The five-star venue.
The extravagant decorations.
The designer gown.
The diamond necklace.
The wedding I had spent months showing off to everyone.
It hadn't been paid for the way I'd claimed.
Marcus's eyes remained fixed on mine.
"Nia, tell them."
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because six months earlier, Evelyn had done something for me that I had promised never to reveal.
Something that made her simple blue dress even more heartbreaking.
And if Marcus told everyone the truth, the perfect life I had built around myself would collapse.
He looked at the guests.
Then he asked the question that destroyed my confidence.
"Who sold her home so you could have this wedding?"
I felt my knees weaken.
May you like
Evelyn began sobbing.
And I realized the person I'd just humiliated had sacrificed the only home she owned to give me the wedding of my dreams.
