Nine Times Too Late
On the day of my wedding, my fiance, Don James Colombo, left me at the altar again.
"Angelina is in the ICU," he said. "The ceremony will have to wait."
It was the ninth time he had abandoned me for his terminally ill childhood sweetheart.
The first time, she had run away from home, and he could not rest easy. "Angelina is missing, yet you want me to stand here toasting at the wedding? Don't be so selfish, Leticia."
The third time, he said Angelina was in a terrible state and threatening to take her own life — he had to go comfort her.
By the eighth time, James had stopped explaining and simply had the butler notify me the wedding was off.
For him, postponing a wedding was nothing. For me, the Buono Principessa left standing in a chapel, it meant ridicule and one hundred lashes from my furious father.
The lashes split open my skin and left me running a fever that would not break.
James would hold me afterward, apologize helplessly, and promise he would make it up to me after we married.
He promised nine times.
He kept none of them.
So when he left me again for Angelina, I did not cry or make a scene. I packed my bags alone and in silence.
It would be the last time he ever postponed our wedding.
One month later, he would never be able to find me again.