2

Chapter Two

The wedding venue takes my breath away, but not in a good way. Everything is perfect – too perfect. White roses cascade from crystal vases, candles flicker on every surface, and soft golden light bathes the entire room. It's the kind of wedding every little girl dreams about, the kind Sally has been planning since we were teenagers.

The kind of wedding I never wanted.

I pause at the entrance, smoothing down the emerald green dress Sally picked out for me. It's beautiful, I'll give her that. The silk feels cool against my skin, and the color makes my dark skin glow. But wearing it feels like putting on a costume, pretending to be someone I'm not.

The sound of laughter and animated conversation fills the air from every corner of the room. Family members I haven't seen in years cluster around tables, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of Igbo mixed with English. Children run between the adults, their Sunday best already wrinkled from playing.

It should feel like home. Instead, it feels like a trap.

I scan the room, looking for a safe place to sit. Maybe somewhere in the back where I can disappear into the crowd. But before I can make my escape, a voice cuts through the noise.

"Is that Daberechi?"

My heart sinks. I try to duck behind a flower arrangement, but it's too late. I've been spotted.

"Ah ah! Small Daberechi of yesterday!"

Three of my aunties descend on me like hawks, their faces bright with excitement and barely contained gossip. They're all dressed in elaborate traditional outfits – yards of colorful fabric and intricate headwraps that probably took hours to arrange.

"Good afternoon, Mama and Aunties," I say, forcing a polite smile and offering the slight bow that good Nigerian daughters are supposed to give.

"You are blessed, my dear," Auntie Ngozi says, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug that smells like expensive perfume and palm oil. "Look at you! So big now, so grown up."

"How are you, my daughter?" Auntie Adanna adds, holding me at arm's length to get a better look. "America is treating you well, eh?"

I catch my mother's eye across the table, and my stomach drops. She's watching me with that look – the one that says she's disappointed but not surprised. Mom has never approved of my life choices, and she makes sure I know it every time we're in the same room.

"America is the same," I say, trying to keep my voice light.

"But when are you going to bring us a husband?" Auntie Chiamaka jumps in, her voice carrying that sing-song tone Nigerian aunties use when they're about to give unsolicited life advice. "There's no more time, my dear. Your biological clock is ticking."

Here we go. I should have known this was coming. At every family gathering, it's the same conversation. When are you getting married? Where is your husband? What are you waiting for?

"Don't mind her," my mother says, her voice sharp with disapproval. "She thinks she's still young."

The words sting more than they should. I'm thirty years old, successful, independent. But in my mother's eyes, I'm still the stubborn little girl who refuses to do what she's told.

"My dear, hurry up and marry," Auntie Ngozi continues, patting my arm like I'm a child. "A husband is a woman's glory. Forget all this new generation nonsense – it won't take you anywhere."

I want to scream. I want to tell them that I don't need a man to complete me, that I'm perfectly happy on my own. I want to explain that marriage isn't some magical cure for loneliness, that sometimes being alone is better than being with the wrong person.

But I know better. Telling them I don't plan to get married would probably give them all heart attacks.

"I hear you, Auntie," I say instead, my smile so fake it hurts my face. "You make very good points. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to check on the bride."

I escape before they can say anything else, weaving through the crowd toward the bridal suite. My heels click against the marble floor, and I can feel curious eyes following me. Everyone wants to know about the cousin who went to America and never came back with a husband.

The bridal suite is at the end of a long hallway, away from the noise and chaos of the main room. I knock softly and push the door open.

Sally is standing in front of a full-length mirror, and she looks absolutely stunning. Her wedding dress is a masterpiece – layers of silk and lace that seem to float around her like a cloud. Her makeup is flawless, her hair swept up in an elegant bun with tiny pearls woven through it.

She looks like a princess. She looks like everything a bride should be.

"You look incredible, Sally," I say, and for once I don't have to fake my smile.

She spins around, her face lighting up when she sees me. "Dabe! You're here!"

She rushes over and pulls me into a hug, careful not to mess up her dress. I can feel her trembling with excitement.

"I think I'm going to cry," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "I can't believe this is actually happening. I'm getting married, Dabe. I'm marrying the man of my dreams. Can you believe it?"

I can believe it. Sally has always gotten everything she wanted. Good grades, perfect job, perfect man. Life has been kind to her in ways it's never been kind to me.

"I can believe it," I say, squeezing her hands. "You deserve all the happiness in the world."

"But seriously, why are you late?" she asks, stepping back to look at me with mock sternness. "How are we going to find you a good husband if you keep showing up late to everything?"

"Wow, you sound just like my mother," I say, rolling my eyes. "I'm not looking for a husband, Sally. You of all people should know that."

"You say that now," she says, adjusting my dress with practiced hands. "But in a few years when you're living alone with a bunch of cats, you're going to wish you'd taken my advice and found yourself a husband."

Before I can respond, there's a knock at the door. A moment later, James pokes his head in. He's tall and lean, with kind eyes and an easy smile. I've met him a few times over the years – he's Andrew's younger brother, the family favorite who can do no wrong.

"They're calling for the bride," he says.

Sally squeals and grabs my hands. "This is it! This is really happening!"

"Deep breaths," I remind her, demonstrating with exaggerated inhales and exhales.

She nods and takes a shaky breath, then another. The color returns to her cheeks.

"James, can you please walk Dabe to the altar?" Sally says, practically shoving me toward him. "She gets nervous in crowds."

I turn to glare at her, but she's already checking her reflection one last time. There's no point in arguing now.

"Ready?" James asks, offering me his arm.

I nod, not trusting my voice. My throat feels tight, and my hands are starting to shake. This is it. I'm about to walk down the aisle and see Andrew standing at the altar, waiting to marry my cousin.

James takes my arm, and together we walk toward the main room. The noise of conversation dies down as people notice us approaching. I can feel hundreds of eyes on me, judging my dress, my hair, my lack of a wedding ring.

"Look at him," James whispers in my ear as we reach the entrance to the ceremony area. "Poor guy looks like he's about to pass out."

I lift my eyes toward the altar, and my heart stops.

Andrew is standing there in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, looking like something out of a magazine. His dark hair is slicked back, his jaw clean-shaven. He looks exactly like the successful businessman he is – powerful, confident, untouchable.

But James is right. There's something in his posture that suggests he'd rather be anywhere else. His shoulders are tense, his hands clasped too tightly in front of him.

And then our eyes meet.

The world around me seems to slow down. The conversations fade to a whisper, the music becomes distant background noise. All I can see is Andrew, all I can feel is the intensity of his gaze burning into me.

His eyes are dark with emotion – longing, frustration, something that looks almost like pain. He's watching me walk down the aisle like I'm the bride, like I'm the one coming to marry him.

"By the way, you look beautiful," James murmurs in my ear.

"Thank you," I manage to say, though my voice sounds far away even to me.

We reach the altar, and James releases my arm. I take my place on the bride's side, trying to focus on anything except the man standing across from me. But I can feel Andrew's eyes on me like a physical touch, and despite myself, I look up.

He's still staring at me with that intense, burning gaze. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

"You look stunning," he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words send a shiver through me, and I feel heat rising in my cheeks. "Thank you," I reply, though my voice comes out shakier than I intended.

I try to look away, but something in his expression holds me captive. There's fury there, barely contained. Anyone can see he doesn't want to be here, and I can't pretend I don't know why.

"Now would be a good time to say yes to that offer," he says, so quietly that only I can hear him.

My breath catches. He's talking about yesterday, about his suggestion that we run away together. Even now, minutes before his wedding, he's asking me to leave with him.

"You'd definitely be saying yes to something," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

"You know what I mean."

I force myself to look straight ahead, focusing on the floral arrangements at the back of the room. "I honestly don't know what you mean, Mr. Williams."

He chuckles, and the sound is both amused and frustrated. "You're upset. You only call me Mr. Williams when you're upset with me. It's adorable."

"I'm very happy for you, Mr. Williams," I say, putting extra emphasis on his formal name.

"I mean it, Dabe," he says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "This means nothing. It's just for show."

I nearly give myself whiplash turning to stare at him in disbelief. The way he can say these things with a completely straight face should be studied by scientists. He's about to marry my cousin, and he's telling me it doesn't matter.

Before I can respond, the music changes. The wedding march begins, and everyone in the room stands and turns toward the back.

The doors open, and Sally appears.

She looks like something out of a fairy tale. The dress moves with her like liquid silk, and her face is radiant with joy. She's practically glowing as she walks down the aisle on her father's arm, her eyes locked on Andrew.

This is her moment. The moment she's been dreaming about her entire life.

And I'm standing here wishing it was mine.

The ceremony begins, but I feel like I'm watching it happen to someone else. The officiant speaks about love and commitment, about the sacred bond of marriage. Sally and Andrew exchange rings, their hands trembling slightly as they slide the gold bands into place.

But even as he's holding my cousin's hands, Andrew keeps glancing at me. It's subtle – a quick look, a stolen moment – but I notice every single one.

I want to disappear. I want to close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else. But I can't look away.

"Do you, Andrew Williams, take Sara Okafor to be your lawfully wedded wife," the officiant asks, his voice carrying across the silent room. "To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

There's a pause that feels like it lasts forever. Andrew's eyes find mine one last time, and I see a flash of something that looks like an apology.

"I do," he says, his voice steady despite the conflict I can see warring in his expression.

"And do you, Sara Okafor, take Andrew Williams to be your lawfully wedded husband," the officiant turns to Sally. "To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

"I do," Sally answers, her voice full of love and absolute certainty.

Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I have no right to cry at this wedding. I have no right to feel anything except happiness for my cousin.

But as Sally speaks her vows, promising her undying love and devotion to the man I can't forget, I feel something breaking inside my chest. It's not fair. None of this is fair.

"You may kiss the bride," the officiant announces.

Andrew cups Sally's face in his hands and leans down to kiss her. The crowd erupts in cheers and applause, but all I can hear is the sound of my own heart breaking.

The kiss seals their union, makes it official and real. Andrew is married now. He belongs to Sally, and she belongs to him.

And I am destined to remain forever on the sidelines, watching the man I love build a life with someone else.

The reception moves into full swing around me. Tables are laden with traditional Nigerian dishes – jollof rice, pounded yam, pepper soup that makes your eyes water. The scent of spices and celebration fills the air.

I sit at the family table, picking at my food and nodding along to conversations I'm not really hearing. Everyone is so happy, so full of joy for the newlyweds. They keep toasting the couple, raising their glasses and shouting "Cheers!" until the room rings with laughter.

I raise my glass when everyone else does, but the champagne tastes like ash in my mouth.

"You okay?" a voice asks beside me.

I turn to see James settling into the empty chair next to mine. His bow tie is slightly crooked now, and there's a genuine concern in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.

"Not really," I admit, surprised by my own honesty.

"Want to get out of here?" he asks, glancing around the crowded room. "I know a quiet bar about ten minutes away. Good music, strong drinks, no family asking when you're getting married."

The offer is so tempting I almost cry with relief. "Give me a minute."

I make my way over to the head table where the newlyweds are holding court. Sally is glowing, still in her perfect dress, while Andrew sits beside her looking like the picture of a devoted husband.

"Congratulations again," I say, leaning down to hug them both. "I'm really happy for you two. But I'm going to head out."

"Luke is going to take you home," Andrew says quickly, his hand already moving toward his phone.

The mention of Luke makes my stomach clench. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

"I insist," Andrew says, his voice taking on that commanding tone I know so well.

"I have a ride," I say firmly, gesturing toward James. "Besides, I don't think I'll be going home just yet."

I say the last part deliberately, watching Andrew's face. His eyes narrow slightly, and I can see the jealousy flicker across his features.

"Wait, you and James?" Sally squeals, clapping her hands together excitedly. "Oh my God, this is perfect! Have fun, and I want all the details later!"

"Goodnight, you two," I say, hugging Sally tightly. "I wish you all the happiness in the world."

As I turn to leave with James, I can feel Andrew's eyes burning into my back. Let him watch. Let him wonder. Let him feel a fraction of the jealousy and frustration I've been carrying around for months.

For once, I'm not going to be the one left behind.

James offers me his arm, and together we walk toward the exit. The night air is warm and sweet, filled with the scent of jasmine and frangipani.

"So," James says as we wait for his car. "That was intense."

"You have no idea," I mutter.

He studies my face in the dim light. "Want to talk about it?"

I consider the question. James seems kind, uncomplicated. Maybe that's exactly what I need right now.

"Ask me again after that drink," I say.

He smiles. "Deal."