Fell For The Wrong Whitmore

It hurts to see the love of your life marrying someone else. It hurts even more when that someone is your best friend.

My life has always felt… different. Like I didn’t quite belong among the people around me. I know that probably doesn’t make sense, but it’s the truth. Everything I have, every opportunity, every comfort, it was given to me. I never felt like I earned any of it.

You see, I’ve been fortunate, yes, but only because of my father. My father has spent his entire life serving the Whitmore family as their butler. Loyal, devoted, invisible. And in return for his loyalty, the Whitmore family showed me kindness. They got me into the same elite private school their children attended. I did manage to earn a scholarship early on, but let’s be honest, I only got through the doors because of Mr. Whitmore.

At that school, I wasn’t bullied. I couldn’t be, not when I was remotely associated with Whitmore. But that didn’t mean I was accepted, either. Most of the time, I was just ignored. And I didn’t mind. I was a quiet, awkward introvert. I didn’t want the attention of the elite. Except for one person.

Noah Whitmore.

He was the only attention I ever wanted. And for a while, I had it. He was my friend. Even when I secretly longed to be something more. But of course, he never saw me that way. Because one, he was a Whitmore, and I was the butler’s daughter. And two, he already had Vivienne, the love of his life... and my best friend.

Noah and Vivienne were the only two people who ever truly saw me at school. Everyone else only noticed me because they did. And even when they found out I was nothing more than the daughter of an ordinary man, the butler to Noah’s family, they never made me feel small. They welcomed me. They included me. They gave me a place in a world that never really belonged to me.

I met Viv through Noah, of course. I was certain that once he told her who I was, the daughter of the help, she’d never speak to me again. After all, she came from the same rarefied world he did: moneyed, polished, untouchable. But she surprised me. Vivienne didn’t turn away. Instead, she pulled me in and became the friend I never knew I needed, and never really deserved.

In so many ways, she was just like me. She loved to read. She was an introvert. She cooked beautifully, quietly, with care. And she loved Noah. Just like me.

When I first met her, I thought, Oh, here we go again. Another one of Noah’s girlfriends. Just a name on a list. I was sure it would fade like the others. But I was wrong. They became a couple in our final year of school. And somehow, they’re still together, stronger than ever. Strong enough that today… They’re getting married.

They were always kind. Always generous. And I…I was awful. All this time, I secretly hoped they’d break up. Wished it, even prayed for it. Dreamed of stepping into her place, like it was something I could just take. My feelings were selfish. My thoughts, shameful. But none of that mattered in the end. Because they never fell apart. And even though it breaks my heart to watch them say “I do,” I’m glad Noah found her. Because someone like me, someone this ordinary, was never meant to belong in the Whitmore world.

I was Vivienne’s maid of honor, the title I never truly deserved, not when I had secretly hoped this day would never come. I hadn’t plotted anything sinister, no grand betrayal or bitter confrontation. But deep down, I had quietly wished for this wedding to vanish like a dream. For them to call it off. For something, anything, to stop it.

But nothing did.

And now, here I was, standing just behind her, front and center, watching everything unfold like the final act of a play I never agreed to be in. I felt vicious, ugly with guilt, even though my lips curled into a soft smile. My hands trembled slightly as I clutched her bouquet, too tightly, as though it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

Viv looked breathtaking.

She wore a custom-designed silk and lace gown that shimmered like frost under the golden light pouring in from the tall cathedral windows. The dress was fitted through the bodice, adorned with delicate pearls and subtle embroidery, flaring gently at the waist into a flowing train that swept the floor behind her like a whisper. Her hair was gathered into a romantic updo, soft tendrils framing her glowing face, and a cathedral-length veil trailed behind her like starlight.

She looked like a dream. Noah’s dream.

And I, her maid of honor, stood just behind her in a pistachio green satin gown that hugged my figure modestly. The neckline dipped just slightly, the sleeves off-the-shoulder, elegant and understated, designed to complement but not outshine. But no one was looking at me. And that was a relief.

Because while Vivienne Carter vowed forever to Noah Whitmore, I stood behind her… silent, smiling, and completely shattered.

Tears welled in my eyes, which I’m sure everyone thought were out of joy. No one knew the truth. No one knew I was mourning.

I was mourning the loss of a life that could never be mine. Mourning the boy I loved, who would never look at me the way he looked at her.

I just wanted the day to end.

I was tired of pretending.

Tired of smiling through heartbreak.

Tired of being brave.

All I wanted was to go home, shut my door, and fall apart. To cry until my lungs ached and my body gave in. Because today, I didn’t just attend a wedding.

I witnessed the moment I lost Noah Whitmore forever.

The reception after the wedding was beautiful. Magical, even.

For everyone else.

I stood among smiling faces, echoing laughter, clinking glasses, and love-filled glances, and I pretended to be part of it all. I laughed when I was expected to. Smiled for photos. Clapped along during toasts. I danced too because Vivienne and Noah insisted on pulling me to the dance floor, their joy infectious, their eyes full of the kind of happiness I would never be able to fake.

So I danced. A little. Enough to convince them that I was celebrating with my whole heart.

I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t happy for them. I didn’t want to cast a shadow on their perfect day.

And I drank more than I usually would. It was the only thing that helped me stay upright, the only way I was going to make it through the night. Each time I saw them laughing together, locked in their own little bubble of bliss, I took another sip. And another.

But no amount of champagne could quiet the ache in my chest.

Every time I looked at Noah, I saw the boy I used to dream about.

Every time I looked at Vivienne, I saw the girl who never knew she’d taken him from me.

They were beautiful. Together. And that made the pain worse.

By the look of it, I was just another guest having the time of her life, glowing under the fairy lights, dancing, drinking, celebrating. But the truth was, I was slowly unraveling. Dying inside.

I clapped for the speeches, cheered for the first dance, mingled with their friends and families.

Everyone was there. Everyone except one.

Lucian Whitmore. Noah’s older brother.

Honestly, I wasn’t even surprised he vanished the moment the ceremony was over. I’d seen him earlier, seated alone at one of the far tables, sipping something dark from a crystal glass and once speaking to a man I didn’t recognize. Then, nothing. He disappeared, just like he always does.

Lucian has always been… different.

He’s the strangest Whitmore of them all.

Howard Whitmore, Mr. Whitmore, was a dignified man, strict but deeply kind. A quiet, composed patriarch with a soft spot for his family. Helena Whitmore, Mrs. Whitmore, was the definition of grace and warmth. She always treated me with such unexpected gentleness.

Their family was small, just the two sons, Noah and Lucian, but full of love. At least, where Noah was concerned.

Lucian was the exception. The outlier.

He was rarely around, and even when he was, he felt miles away—like he was in a room with you, but never with you. Cold, unreadable, always sharply dressed and sharply spoken. Since I was a child, there had been something about him that made me uneasy.

I wouldn’t call it fear, at least, not the usual kind. It was something quieter – a tension I felt in my bones whenever he walked into a room. A tightening in my throat when his eyes met mine, as if he could see straight through me and didn’t like what he found.

I don’t think we’ve ever had a proper conversation.

And that’s saying something, considering I was practically a fixture in his family’s home: best friends with his brother, part of every birthday, every holiday, every Whitmore gathering. Yet Lucian… remained a stranger. A distant, unreadable ghost in the house.

At one point during the reception, I noticed Mrs. Whitmore scanning the room, her smile beginning to falter. Her eyes moved slowly across the crowd, her polite conversations thinning out as her focus narrowed.

She was looking for Lucian. Again.

I had seen that look in her eyes before, hope dimming into disappointment. No matter how many times he disappeared on days like this, some part of her still expected him to stay, to show up, to care. She adored both her sons. Anyone could see that, but it was different with Lucian. When he was around, her eyes sparkled with something like awe. When he wasn’t, they dulled, like a part of her was always bracing for absence. And today, on Noah’s big day, her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

When her gaze landed on mine, she gave me a soft, motherly smile, one I’d known since I was a child.

I walked over. “Hi, Mrs. Whitmore,” I said gently.

“Hey, honey,” she replied, placing a light hand on my arm. “Have you seen Lucian?”

I glanced around the ballroom as if hoping he might miraculously appear.

“I saw him earlier… but not since then,” I said, cautiously.

She pulled her phone from her clutch and dialed quickly, lifting it to her ear. After a few seconds, she clicked her tongue in frustration and ended the call.

“He’s not answering,” she muttered with a sigh. “Would you mind finding him for me, dear? Please tell him we’re taking the family photo, and he needs to be in it.”

I didn’t want to. Lucian Whitmore made me nervous in a way I couldn’t explain. But anything was better than standing here pretending I was whole while the man I loved celebrated his forever with someone else.

So, I nodded. “Of course. I’ll find him.”

I asked around the hall first, staff, a few guests, one of his cousins, but no one had seen him. Eventually, I stepped outside, into the cooler, quieter corridors of the museum. The hush after the celebration’s buzz was oddly soothing. The echo of my heels felt louder here, bouncing off high ceilings and marble walls.

Then I saw him.

Lucian stood alone in one of the museum wings, his back to me, facing a massive oil painting of a white horse and a young woman riding bareback, her hair flying wild in the wind. I remembered overhearing once that he loved horses. Owned several. It made sense now, something about the way he looked at the painting. Still. Silent. Focused.

I took a breath, trying to shake off the nerves crawling up my spine. He had that effect on people, cold and unreadable, like a statue carved in stone. He was intimidating without trying to be.

He didn’t need me to call his name. The echo of my steps gave me away. He glanced over his shoulder with nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgment before returning to the painting, like I didn’t matter.

“Mr. Whitmore?” I said softly, my voice catching in my throat.

He hummed in response. No eye contact. No words. Just that deep, disinterested sound.

I straightened my spine. “Your mother sent me. She’s looking for you. They’re taking the family photo.”

“Okay,” he said, barely above a whisper.

That was it. My job was done. I had no reason to linger, and no desire to. Being near him unsettled me in ways I didn’t understand. There was something about him, his silence, his stillness, that didn’t feel like calm. It felt like restraint. Like quiet rage dressed in a tuxedo.

I turned to leave, eager to get away.

But I hadn’t taken more than three steps when I heard it.

“Elara.”

He said my name.

My heart stopped. My stomach twisted. I couldn’t remember him ever calling me by name before, not once. It sounded unfamiliar in his mouth, like something forbidden. His voice was deep, smooth, yet carried a weight that pressed into my spine.

I turned slowly to face him.

“Yes?” I breathed, barely able to get the word out.

He had taken a few steps closer now, just enough to close some of the space between us. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders squared. His jaw set in stone.

He looked at me, really looked at me, and there was no cruelty in his eyes, but no softness either. Just quiet knowing.

“Noah is a married man now,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Stay away from him.”

I froze.

His words were not a threat. Not a suggestion. They were a command. A verdict passed down in a courtroom I didn’t know I was standing in. My eyes widened as the truth sank in. He knew. He knew.

The air left my lungs in a single breath. The world spun ever so slightly.

He held my gaze for a moment longer, unreadable. Then, without another word, he walked past me. The faint trail of his cologne lingered in the air, something dark and expensive, like oud layered with cedar and something bitter.

He didn’t look back.

But I stood there, unable to move, my heart pounding in the silence he left behind.