The Unwanted Bride Takes Back Her Crown

At the wedding, Annabella's heavy, custom-embroidered 珠绣 wedding dress skirt swept across the trimmed lawn of the greenhouse garden. The midday sun beat down on her bare shoulders, hot and blinding. She locked her knees, forcing her spine completely straight as she stared at Ethan. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm of pure anticipation. The priest opened his leather-bound Bible. Five hundred of Manhattan's elite sat in the white folding chairs, the silence in the air thick and reverent. Then, a harsh, mechanical buzzing shattered the quiet. Ethan's phone vibrated violently against his thigh. His jaw tightened. A deep crease formed between his eyebrows, signaling his immediate annoyance. The priest paused, clearing his throat. Ethan ignored him. He reached into his tailored tuxedo pants and pulled out the phone. The moment his eyes hit the screen, the blood drained from his face. His skin turned the color of dirty ash. Leo, the best man, leaned in. "Ethan, put it away," he whispered, reaching out. Ethan violently shoved Leo's arm aside. He spun around, turning his back to the priest and the entire congregation. His thumbs flew across the glass screen, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped the device. A cold knot formed in Annabella's stomach. She reached out, her fingertips brushing the warm fabric of Ethan's sleeve. He flinched, jerking his arm away as if her touch burned him. He turned his head. There was no joy in his eyes. There was no groom looking at his bride. There was only blind, suffocating panic. "Do you, Ethan-" the priest tried again, raising his voice to regain control of the ceremony. "Shut up!" Ethan roared. The entire crowd gasped. A collective murmur rippled through the five hundred guests. In the front row, the press photographers immediately raised their heavy cameras. The rapid clicking of shutters sounded like gunfire. A wave of dizziness hit Annabella. The edges of her vision blurred. She forced the corners of her mouth up, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Ethan, please. Just finish the vows." Ethan reached up and ripped the white boutonniere from his lapel. He threw the crushed flower onto the grass. "Donie is in the hospital." The name hit Annabella's chest like a physical blow. Her lungs seized. Five years of swallowing her pride, five years of stepping aside for his childhood friend, rushed up her throat like battery acid. She grabbed the cuff of his sleeve, her nails digging into the expensive fabric. "If you walk down that aisle right now, Ethan, we are done." Ethan ripped his arm out of her grip. The sheer force of his movement threw Annabella off balance. Her ankle twisted in her high heels, and she stumbled backward, barely catching herself on the wooden altar rail. "You are completely heartless," Ethan snarled, his voice carrying over the microphones. "She swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills. She is going to die." The bridesmaids surged forward, their faces flushed with anger, ready to block his path. Ethan didn't even slow down. He lowered his shoulder and shoved past them, his heavy dress shoes pounding against the wooden steps. The garden erupted into chaos. Whispers turned into loud scoffs. The camera shutters fired relentlessly, capturing every second of the groom fleeing the altar. In the front row, Ethan's mother, Marge, sat perfectly still. Her face was a mask of cold stone. She didn't say a word. She didn't lift a finger to stop her son. Annabella stood completely alone on the raised platform. A cold breeze swept through the garden, chilling the sweat on her neck. The pristine white dress felt like a heavy, suffocating joke wrapping around her body. Security guards rushed the aisle, throwing up their arms to hold back the gossip reporters who were trying to break the perimeter. Annabella kept her eyes locked on Ethan's back. She watched him sprint through the wrought-iron gates of the park until he threw himself into a waiting car and disappeared. Her maid of honor wrapped her arms around Annabella from behind, trying to drape a silk shawl over her shaking shoulders. Annabella took a sharp, deep breath. The air burned her throat. She pushed the bridesmaid's hands away and locked her knees again, standing perfectly straight. She looked out at the sea of Manhattan socialites. She saw their pity. She saw their amusement. Annabella reached up and grabbed the edge of her priceless lace veil. She yanked it hard, tearing the bobby pins from her scalp. She threw the crumpled lace onto the grass. She grabbed handfuls of her heavy skirt, lifting the fabric above her knees. She ignored the gasps. She ignored the stares. She walked down the steps of the altar, her spine rigid. A reporter broke through the security line, shoving a microphone inches from her face. A bodyguard slammed his hand into the reporter's chest, pushing him back. Annabella didn't blink. Her eyes were dead. She walked straight out of the park and pulled open the heavy door of the waiting stretch Lincoln limousine. She threw herself onto the leather seat. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the crowd. "Drive," Annabella told the driver, her voice devoid of any emotion. "Mount Sinai Hospital."