Left at the 999th Step

"It looks like the groom got lost on his way here! As punishment, the bride has to down three shots!"

A video was uploaded to the group chat. In it, the emcee was on the stage, teasing Winona Sinclair and George Yangley.

"You two sure are in sync with each other! As expected of best friends who've known each other for seven years."

Below the stage, the guests were eagerly joining in on the teasing.

Dressed in a haute couture designer wedding dress, Winona spoke into her microphone with a gentle, composed expression.

"With Simon absent, George will see to all of our guests today on his behalf. Naturally, he will also drink this penalty shot for Simon."

George, as the man of honor, stood beside her in a smart suit. He picked up a shot glass with a shy look on his face.

Those friends and family in the group chat who were unaware of the truth began spamming in the chat.

"You know, with them standing beside each other like that, the man of honor and the bride actually look like they were made for each other."

"How could the groom be so inconsiderate as to be late on such an important occasion!"

Following that, another photo was sent to the group chat.

Winona's head was tilted back as she straightened the corsage pinned to George's chest.

That wasn't an ordinary corsage for the groomsmen. It was the one specifically made for the groom. I had fussed over it just last night, carefully making sure every petal and leaf was perfectly arranged.

It was also supposed to be pinned to my chest as I made my wedding vows.

Instead, I now stepped on the winding mountain road strewn with loose gravel. The sharp edges sliced through the skin of my soles, the resulting pain crawling up the nerves of my legs. Nonetheless, that pain was nothing compared to the agony that swept through me upon seeing that photo.

Five years ago, Winona had taken my hand as we walked this exact road. She had pointed at the distant night scenery of the city below while vowing that she would never let me get lost in Gaturnia. At the time, she had also said that, as long as I was alive, she would bring me along wherever she went.

Now, however, she was standing with another man as they accepted the blessings and well-wishes that should've been mine.

A message from Winona popped up on my phone screen.

"There are directions on the road signs. Where are you now? You still have 300 steps. Don't make me lose the bet with George."

Two minutes later, when I still didn't send a reply, she texted me again.

"Don't make the guests wait too long. Simon, be a little more considerate."

For the past five years, every time I got lost, she would patiently say on the other end of the line, "Don't be scared. Just stand right there and don't move. I'll come to you."

That day, for the very first time, she had told me to find my way myself. Not because she had some matters to attend to or was delayed by something, but simply because she had made a bet with George.

Exiting the messaging app, I dialled my father's personal number.

Half a year ago, I got into a huge argument with him that ended in him cutting off all ties with me.

The reason for that? Because I had insisted on marrying Winona, who had had nothing to her name. Because I had stubbornly insisted on guaranteeing her company's loans, secretly funding her, and helping her secure bridge financing.

Even so, he still had his secretary arrange the full fanfare, saying that a son of the Sorell family had to have a grand ceremony.

The phone rang for a long time, so long that it automatically ended the call.

Dad hadn't picked up.

Tracing the wet trail left behind by the car just now, I slowly made my way down the mountain.

It was a rather misty day, so I ended up going the wrong way twice and had to turn back.

The bloody footprints I left behind me on the gray asphalt were a grisly sight.

Winona had assumed that, without her, I would go around in circles.

However, I now realized that, though I would get scared and would take the long way around, it still wasn't impossible for me to find my own way out.

I managed to hail a passing taxi. Once I climbed in, I sent Dad my first message in six months.

"Dad, I'm not marrying anymore. I want to go home."

Once I was done, I leaned against the window and gazed out at the mountainous road stretching behind me. Then, I deleted the chat window that had been pinned at the top of my contact list for the past five years.