Chapter 2 – The Silence After

The rain hadn’t stopped.

By the time I got home, my hair was plastered to my face and my dress clung to my skin like a second layer of shame. I closed the door behind me, kicked off my heels, and let my back press against the wood. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your own breathing sound like a scream.

I slid down to the floor, still holding my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. The last thing I wanted was to see his name flash on the screen.

I turned the phone face down and closed my eyes. For a moment, the darkness felt safe. But the second I let my mind rest, it all came back in sharp, unbearable fragments.

His voice.

Her perfume.

That look in his eyes when he saw me standing in the doorway.

A noise escaped my throat. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. Just the sound of something breaking.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The city moved outside, but in my little apartment, time had stopped.

I dragged myself up eventually, walking like someone carrying a body. My own body. The reflection in the hallway mirror startled me. I didn’t look like me anymore. My eyeliner had smudged down my cheeks, and my lips were pale. I looked like a ghost wearing a bridal rehearsal dress.

The wedding board on the wall stared back at me — a collage of soft pink and gold, little notes stuck with pins, a printed seating chart, a few candid polaroids from our engagement party. All of it suddenly felt like evidence from a crime scene.

I reached for the photo in the center of the board. Damien was kissing the top of my head, smiling like a man who was in love. My mother was standing right beside us in that same picture. I hadn’t noticed the way her hand rested on his arm. How had I missed it?

My grip on the photo tightened until the paper bent and tore. I let the ripped halves fall to the floor.

The phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Over and over. Damien’s name lit up the screen like a curse I couldn’t escape.

I didn’t answer.

He sent a message. Then another.

Please talk to me.

It’s not what you think. I love you.

My breath hitched. A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. Not the kind of laugh that came from joy. The kind that came from the pit of your chest when you were past crying.

I walked into the bedroom, pulled the blinds closed, and climbed onto the bed without even changing. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender. Normally it calmed me. Tonight, it felt suffocating.

As soon as I closed my eyes, the memories came — those beautiful little knives dressed as love stories.

The night he proposed. The cold wind at the park. Fairy lights strung between the trees. I’d been wearing that ridiculous pale blue dress, the one he said made me look like spring. He got down on one knee, hands shaking like I was the most important person in the world. My heart had almost exploded with happiness.

He had whispered, “You’re it for me, Elara.”

And I had believed him.

Another flash. Sunday mornings at his place, making pancakes, him wrapping his arms around me from behind and kissing the back of my neck. He’d always hum when he was happy. God, I loved that sound.

And now those same hands had been all over my mother. Those lips had kissed her the way they kissed me.

I pressed my palms against my eyes as if I could squeeze the memories out. But they wouldn’t leave. They clung to me like wet fabric.

The phone rang again. Then another call. I turned it off this time. Let the world wait. Let him wait. Let her wait.

A sharp knock on the door startled me. I froze. Then the sound of an envelope sliding under the door. I walked over slowly, heart pounding, and picked it up. A sleek ivory invitation stared back at me.

The wedding coordinator’s reminder.

Rehearsal dinner tomorrow. Press release to confirm final details. Guest list approval pending.

My laugh this time was silent. A breath with no joy in it. I ripped the envelope in half, then in half again, until it was nothing but confetti on the floor.

The next knock came about an hour later. This time, it wasn’t paper. It was people.

“Elara? Honey, open up.” It was Maggie. My best friend. My maid of honor. Her voice was soft, but it carried that note of concern that made my stomach twist.

I didn’t answer.

“Elara, I know you’re in there.”

I pressed my back against the door. “Go home, Mags.”

“Not a chance. I saw the news.”

My head snapped up. “What?”

There was a pause. “The tabloids picked it up already.”

Of course they had. Damien Whitlock wasn’t just any fiancé. He was Damien Whitlock, the youngest CEO in the Whitlock empire. Wealthy, perfect, the golden boy the press adored. And my wedding was supposed to be a fairytale headline.

Maggie’s voice softened. “You don’t have to open the door. Just… say something.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s true.”

A silence stretched on the other side. Then a soft curse. “Oh, El.” “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. But you’re not going through this alone.”

I didn’t have the strength to fight her. I unlocked the door, and she slipped inside, wrapped in a raincoat, holding a takeout bag like it was a peace offering. She didn’t say anything at first. She just pulled me into her arms, and for the first time since the betrayal, the tears finally came.

Ugly, heavy, shaking sobs. Maggie didn’t try to stop me. She just held on.

After a long while, she guided me to the couch. She opened the takeout — my favorite soup — and handed me a spoon. I stared at it like it was foreign. Eating felt impossible, but her presence anchored me back to reality.

“They’re still calling,” I whispered.

“Then don’t pick up,” she said simply.

I shook my head. “The wedding. The coordinator. The media. It’s everywhere. How do I disappear from something this loud?”

“You don’t disappear,” she said.

“You breathe. One hour at a time. And then you decide what they get to see.”

I stared at her. “What?”

“Elara, they don’t get to write your story for you. Not Damien. Not your mother. Not the reporters. You do.”

The words settled in my chest like a small ember. It didn’t burn yet, but it glowed faintly.

“I hate them,” I said quietly.

“I know.”

“I loved him. God, I was so sure.”

“I know.”

I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and let out a shaky laugh. “And my mom. How am I supposed to ever look at her again?”

“You don’t,” Maggie said without hesitation. “You look past her. Because she doesn’t deserve your eyes anymore.”

The air was thick. Heavy. But for the first time since the night began, it didn’t feel like it was crushing me.

She stayed for a few more hours, ignoring the dozens of calls lighting up my phone. When she finally left, the rain had turned into a soft mist outside. I climbed into bed again, this time with the lights off, and stared at the ceiling.

I didn’t have answers. I didn’t have a plan. But I knew one thing for sure.

The world thought I was going to marry Damien Whitlock in two days. The tabloids were probably writing romantic headlines, wedding planners were fluffing up white roses, my mother was probably sipping champagne somewhere.

And I was here.

Broken. But breathing.

A single text came in just before midnight.

Damien: I can fix this. Please. I need you.

I didn’t reply.

I didn’t cry again either.

I turned the phone off and whispered to the dark, “You’ll regret this.”

The words were soft. But they were real. And for the first time that night, I felt something new rise beneath the ache. Something cold.

Something steady.

Tomorrow, the world would expect me to be a bride.

But I wasn’t a bride anymore.

I was something else entirely.