His Forbidden Truth

Chapter 1: The Wedding That Wasn't

My wedding dress cost more than my car. Funny how that's what I fixated on as I stared at its pristine white fabric, now crumpled in the corner of my hotel suite like discarded tissue paper. Twelve thousand dollars of hand-beaded lace and silk, tossed aside just like my dignity.

Three hours. I was supposed to walk down the aisle in three hours.

"Sophia, baby, let me explain!" James's voice carried through the door, accompanied by another round of desperate knocking. "It's not what it looked like!"

I pressed my hands against my temples, smearing expensive makeup across my freshly manicured fingers. The image wouldn't leave my mind: James pressed against Rachel's naked body in the bridal suite's changing room, her red lipstick smeared across his neck. Rachel—my maid of honor, my best friend since college, the woman who'd helped me pick out that twelve-thousand-dollar dress.

"Go away, James," I said, my voice cracking. "Or I'll call security."

"Please, it was just cold feet! I love you, Soph. We can fix this!"

A laugh bubbled up from my chest, harsh and foreign. Fix this? The diamond on my finger caught the late afternoon sunlight, mocking me. Two years of planning, three hundred guests already checking into their hotels, and my fiancé couldn't keep it in his pants for twenty-four more hours.

My phone buzzed again—the twentieth call from my mother in the past hour. The screen lit up with a text from Rachel: "Please let me explain. You're my best friend. I never meant for this to happen."

Best friend. Right.

I yanked the engagement ring off my finger; the absence of its weight somehow felt heavier than wearing it had ever been. Five carats of Henderson family history, passed down through three generations of what James had called "lasting love." What a joke.

The suite's mini-bar beckoned. I grabbed the tiny bottle of vodka, downing it in one burning gulp. The alcohol hit my empty stomach—I'd been too nervous to eat all day, too excited about becoming Mrs. James Henderson.

Mrs. James Henderson. The thought made me gag now.

More pounding at the door. This time it was my mother's voice. "Sophia Elizabeth Mitchell! Open this door right now. We have two hundred and eighty-seven guests arriving, and the florist needs final approval on the altar arrangements!"

The altar arrangements. Crystal vases filled with white peonies and blush roses. I'd spent weeks agonizing over the exact shade of pink.

"Tell them to take the flowers home," I called back, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "The wedding's off."

"Don't be ridiculous! Whatever happened, we can—"

"I said it's off!" The second mini vodka bottle hit the wall before I realized I'd thrown it. The crash was satisfying in a way I couldn't explain. "James fucked Rachel in the bridal suite. So unless you want me to walk down the aisle and announce that to all two hundred and eighty-seven guests, cancel. Everything."

The silence from the other side of the door was deafening.

Then, quietly: "Oh, sweetheart."

But I was already shoving my phone and wallet into my smallest purse—the only thing within reach that wasn't labeled "bride" or "future Mrs. Henderson." The connecting door to the adjoining suite was still unlocked from this morning's champagne breakfast with my bridesmaids. I slipped through it, ignoring the scattered makeup bags and garment bags that had seemed so important just hours ago.

The service elevator at the end of the hall was my escape route. No one would expect the bride to flee through the kitchen, past bewildered staff and rolling carts of what would have been my wedding dinner. Herb-crusted salmon and prime rib. James had insisted on both, wanting to impress his father's business associates.

My Uber was waiting at the hotel's side entrance, the driver mercifully asking no questions about my smeared makeup and hastily thrown-on sundress. "The Skylark, please," I told him, naming the first upscale bar that came to mind—one that was far from the hotel, far from the wedding venue, far from everything that was supposed to be my perfect day.

As we pulled away, my phone lit up with a final text from James: "Baby please. You're everything to me. Don't throw away our future over one mistake."

I turned off my phone, leaned back against the cool leather seat, and finally let the tears fall. Not for James—no, I realized with startling clarity that I wasn't crying for him at all. I was crying for the girl who'd spent the morning giddy with excitement, who'd practiced her vows in the mirror while her mother fixed her veil, who'd truly believed in happily ever after.

That girl was gone now, along with her twelve-thousand-dollar dress and her picture-perfect plans. In her place was someone else—someone whose mascara was running down her cheeks and whose hands had finally stopped shaking.

Someone who needed a drink. A strong one.

The city blurred past my window, the late afternoon sun painting everything in shades of gold and promise. Somewhere between the hotel and The Skylark, between the death of one dream and the hazy possibility of something new, I made myself a promise: this wouldn't break me.

I just had no idea then how that promise would change everything.