Chapter 2

The AC in the courthouse lobby is blasting.

The clerk freezes mid-motion, pen in the air, looking at me like I've grown a second head.

"Ma'am… are we still signing?"

The couple behind us in line leans over, all attitude.

"Are you two doing this or not? We got a reception to get to."

"Yeah, dude bailed. What are you still sitting there for?"

I cap the pen. Slide it back across the counter.

"No signing. Please cancel the application."

The clerk opens her mouth. Closes it. Says nothing.

I take that torn-up license, rip it clean in half, and walk out without looking back.

The sun outside is blinding.

I flag a cab. "Kingston Avenue, please."

Back at the condo Josh and I decorated together. I push open the door and the entire place hits me like a punch. Red everywhere. Big red hearts on the windows. Two custom ring-bearer dolls on the couch. Piles of wedding invites and party favors on the coffee table.

My phone buzzes.

Ryan Cole—Josh's best friend—just posted on Instagram.

A photo. Josh, cradling a girl in a white sundress, rushing into the ER. You only see the back of his head, but you can see his hand—the way he's shielding her face like she's made of glass.

Caption: "First loves hit different. Ten years of 'the right girl' can't compete."

Three of our mutual friends already liked it.

I stare at that photo for a full minute. Then I tap the little heart. Like it.

Close the app. Toss the phone on the couch.

I peel off the white dress I had custom-made for today. Wipe off every scrap of makeup. Throw on jeans and a tee.

Then I head straight for the hotel downtown.

I walk into the lobby, straight up to the front desk.

"Cancel tonight's wedding reception. Refund the deposit to the original card."

The manager's smile freezes. He glances at the booking, then back at me.

"Ms. Carter… you don't know?"

I frown. "Know what?"

"Mr. Palmer called half an hour ago. He converted tonight's reception into a 'get-well party' for a Ms. Whitman."

My voice drops. "He changed the name on the booking? What about the deposit?"

The manager dabs sweat off his forehead.

"Mr. Palmer said we should just apply the eight thousand you already put down. He'll cover the rest tonight."

I laugh out loud. Bitter.

He ditches me at the altar to run to his ex—and then uses my eight grand to throw her a party?

"That eight thousand came out of my personal account. My name is on the booking."

"Without my signature, who the hell authorized changing the event?"

The manager stutters. "Mr. Palmer said you two were husband and wife, so—"

"We are not married." I cut him off. "Refund my eight thousand right now. To my account. Or I'm calling the cops on you for fraud and reporting your hotel to the state."

His face goes white. He grabs the walkie-talkie and pages the finance office.

Two minutes later my phone dings. Money's back.

I turn to leave.

Behind me, the front doors swing open. A group walks in, balloons and streamers in hand.

Leading the pack was Josh's best friend—Ryan Cole.

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