I Married My Fiancé for My Dead Lover’s Face

The ballroom smelled like roasted garlic, butter, and gardenias. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, throwing bright sparks across the tables. Two hundred guests chatted, drank wine, and clinked their glasses.

I sat at the center of the elevated head table.

Underneath the white tablecloth, Biscuit lay curled over my feet. His small body trembled every time he shifted his weight. I could feel the heat radiating from his bruised ribs against my satin shoes. Every time he let out a tiny, shallow sigh, something inside my chest twisted tight.

The waiters brought out the first course: chilled jumbo shrimp on beds of crushed ice.

I picked up my silver fork. Before I could touch my plate, Tyson pushed his chair back. The wood scraped loudly against the polished floor.

He didn’t say a word to me. He didn’t even glance down.

Tyson walked straight past our bridal party and strolled across the room to the VIP table. He pulled up an empty chair right beside Destiny.

Destiny smiled up at him, glowing in her matching white dress. She touched his forearm with her manicured nails.

Tyson picked up a shrimp from her plate. He carefully tore off the shell, pinched the tail, and dipped the pink meat into the cocktail sauce. Then he placed it gently onto Destiny’s plate.

He didn’t do it once. He did it again and again. He leaned in close, laughing at something she whispered, wiping his sauce-stained fingers on a linen napkin. He looked like an attentive husband taking care of his bride.

A quiet murmur spread through the ballroom. People stopped cutting their meat. Guests exchanged uneasy looks.

Across the room, my mother sat at table four. Her back was as stiff as an iron rod. Her fork hovered an inch above her salad, completely still. Her jaw was clamped so tight that the muscles in her cheek jumped. For three years, she had stayed silent about Tyson to keep the peace. Now, she looked like a woman holding back an avalanche with her bare hands.

I sat alone at the head table. The ivory train of my dress pooled around Tyson's empty chair. My cheeks burned with a cold, hollow shame.

Then, the empty chair beside me pulled out.

Someone sat down.

I didn't turn my head. I thought it was the best man. Or maybe Clara, the coordinator, coming to tell me how to fix the optics.

Under the table, a warm, broad hand slid over mine.

I flinched. My fingers jerked back, but his palm stayed steady, gently pressing my cold knuckles against the linen. His skin was warm. Completely steady.

I looked down. On his left wrist, I saw a thin silver watch with a scratch across the glass. Leland’s watch.

My breath trapped in my throat.

Leland leaned in close. His shoulder brushed against mine. He smelled of rain and cedar—the exact scent from four years ago, before the hospital, before the fake funeral, before my whole world went dark.

"I came back for you," he whispered. His voice was rough, quiet, and right against my ear. "I never stopped."

I didn't turn to face him. I stared straight ahead at Tyson, who was currently feeding Destiny another piece of shrimp.

"You're dead," I whispered back. My lips barely moved.

"I was wrong about that," Leland said.

His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. It landed right on the spot I had been rubbing raw all morning. He knew. He remembered every nervous habit I had ever tried to hide.

A wave of heat surged through my blood, sharp and dizzying. It terrified me. I yanked my hand away from his grip and shoved it into the fold of my dress.

I didn't pull away because I hated his touch. I pulled away because my heart wanted to lean into him, and that scared me more than anything Tyson had ever done.

Leland didn't chase my hand. He just sat beside me, upright and solid, an unmovable wall between me and the rest of the room.

Elena leaned across the table from her seat as maid of honor. Her dark eyes burned with pure fury. She slid her phone across the table, tapping the screen with a manicured nail.

"Look," she murmured, keeping her voice low.

I glanced down at the screen.

Elena had taken photos of everything. There was Tyson leaning over Destiny at the VIP table. There was Destiny wearing my exact shade of white. And there was a clear, sharp picture of Biscuit's flank from twenty minutes ago, showing the purple welt forming under his gray fur where Destiny's heel had connected.

"I have every single second on burst mode," Elena whispered. Her jaw was set. "I don't know what you're going to do, Kai. But I'll be right next to you when you do it."

I looked down at the photos. Then I looked across the room at Tyson, who had just dabbed a drop of cocktail sauce from the corner of Destiny’s mouth.

Something inside me stopped hurting. The tightness in my chest vanished, replaced by an ice-cold silence.

I nodded once, tight and sharp.

"Good," I said softly.

I reached down under the heavy linen cloth. My fingers found Biscuit’s head. I gently stroked his soft, velvet ear, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my palm.