Nothing.
No text.
No call.
Not even a brief, obligatory message.
My maid of honor, Sarah, helped zip my gown. “You’re allowed to cry, Maya.”
“Later,” I whispered.
“Maya…”
“Later.”
I refused to give my parents another victory.
So I walked down that aisle toward Julian alone.
I said my vows.
I smiled for the photographer.
I hugged my aunts and uncles.
I cut the cake.
I danced.
And whenever a guest discreetly glanced toward those two empty chairs, I pretended not to notice.
Until dinner.
Julian stood from his seat at the head table and gently tapped his water glass with a fork.
The chatter around the ballroom slowly faded.
I assumed he was about to give the usual groom’s toast and thank everyone for coming.
Instead, I watched his eyes move toward those two empty chairs.
Then he looked at me.
“Since the people who were supposed to be standing by Maya’s side tonight chose not to show up,” Julian announced, his voice echoing clearly through the microphone, “I think everyone in this room deserves to know the real reason why.”
My heart stopped.
Julian reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
And pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Julian was not an impulsive man.
As a senior corporate litigation attorney in San Francisco, he was trained to sit calmly across from hostile opponents for hours without raising his voice.
So when he unfolded that paper in front of two hundred wedding guests, I knew this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision.
