On Our Wedding Day, My Fiancé Described My Sister's Birthmark

"Aria, why'd you put your bouquet down?"

Ethan looked at my empty hands, and his frown deepened.

He wore a custom-made black tuxedo, with the white rose I'd chosen pinned to his chest. I'd tied his Windsor knot that morning, and it sat perfectly straight.

"The bouquet's a little heavy," I said softly, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind my ear.

Tessa jumped in to smooth things over. "Mr. Green must be nervous. They're twins. It's easy to mix them up! Next question, next question."

The groomsmen joined in right away, laughing and shoving Ethan.

"Seriously, the man's ruthless in business, and he's falling apart over his own wedding."

"Just carry the bride out to the car already. The motorcade's lined up for three blocks out there."

Ethan knelt on one knee in front of me and slipped a diamond-studded lambskin heel onto my right foot. His hands were steady, and when his fingers brushed my ankle, their warmth felt familiar.

Four years. I'd walked barefoot to the kitchen to warm milk for him when his stomach hurt at night. When he was hungover and feverish, I'd sat with him on the rug of our Long Island house until dawn.

Once the shoe was on, he stood and straightened the folds of my veil with his usual care.

"Stop overthinking," he murmured in my ear, his voice gentle. "Every important person in New York is waiting at St. Patrick's Cathedral today. You're my wife, and nobody can say otherwise."

The idea that no one could question it was absurd enough to make me laugh. Before I could answer, brakes screeched outside.

One of the groomsmen looked out the window and whistled. "Whoa, they're getting impatient back at the house. They say the elder Mr. Green's already at the church."

Ethan held out his hand to me. It was a broad hand with long fingers, and on his ring finger was the plain platinum band from our engagement four years ago.

I put my hand in his.

He held it tight and strode toward the door.

Both sides of the hallway were lined with white tulips flown in for the day. They were Celina's least favorite flower and my favorite.

When Ethan proposed to me, he'd bought out an entire greenhouse of tulips on a whim and told me, "From now on, the only flowers allowed in this house are the ones you like."

I used to think that meant I was the one he favored.

Until three months ago, when I found a yellowed diary in the safe in his penthouse office in Manhattan.

In his messy handwriting, the diary read, "Celina hates tulips. She says they're for funerals. If I ever marry someone else, I'll plant tulips all over the estate so that every time she comes back, they make her sick to her stomach."

I paused for a moment.

Ethan noticed and turned to look at me. "Can't walk?"

"The train's a little long." I looked down at the layers of French lace.

He didn't say anything. He bent down, gathered up the train himself, and draped it over his forearm.

"Hold on to me," he said.

Outside, the camera flashes lit up the entrance like daylight.

A bodyguard opened the car door, and Ethan shielded my head as he helped me into the back of the Rolls-Royce. He slid in after me, took out a bottle of room-temperature water, twisted off the cap, and handed it to me.

He remembered I couldn't drink anything ice-cold.

He also remembered that I didn't like the smell of leather in cars, so he'd added a diffuser with a light citrus scent.

When it came to details, he was the perfect husband.

But as I held the bottle, my eyes landed on the pale silver cufflink peeking out from his shirt cuff.

It was engraved with two intertwined letters. E & C.

Ethan & Celina.

Today was our wedding day, and he was wearing the gift my sister had given him four years ago.

My phone buzzed in my clutch.

I looked down and swiped the screen.

There was one new photo from Celina in the otherwise quiet family group chat.

It showed JFK, with New York's gloomy sky in the background.

The caption read, "I'm here."

Ethan's phone lit up at the same moment.

It was sitting in its car mount. The second that message popped up, the air in the car went still.

The driver's hands jerked, and the car swayed.

Ethan's eyes locked on that familiar name. For three full seconds, he didn't move.

Then he grabbed the phone, turned off the screen, and tossed it onto the leather seat.

"Drive faster," he told the driver coldly. His voice was much rougher than before.

I turned and watched the Manhattan streets slide past the window.

A fine rain had started to fall, streaking the glass like scratches that wouldn't wash off.

Forty minutes until the ceremony.

Just a few hours until my flight to London took off.