The Wedding I Designed to Die For

Today was my follow-up appointment with the doctor.

The minute I got to the hospital, I spotted a familiar figure standing by the curb.

Isabella looked a little surprised to see me, too.

She smiled and said hello.

Before she could say much else, a man came up behind her, carrying luxury shopping bags.

Of course. It was Marco.

I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my voice even.

"Fancy seeing you here. Again."

“Look, the dinner tonight is a big deal for her, and she needs to look sharp. She’s fresh off the boat from Italy, doesn’t know the city. I was making sure no lowlifes gave her trouble. It was a simple favor, nothing more.”

I almost had to laugh at the excuse he came up with.

"This is the kind of 'family gathering' where you have to personally take her shopping?"

"She has a big dinner tonight, she wants to look her best. She just got back from Italy, she doesn't know New York. I was just making sure no one bothered her. Just helping out, that's all!"

His voice turned cold.

"Are we at the point where you question me every time I'm seen with another woman? I thought you were better than that, Sophia. You know the rules."

Rules.

There was that word again.

For his rules, I had given up my design career in Seattle.

For his rules, I had been erased from every one of his family photos for seven years.

A sharp pang lanced through my chest again.

The air was thick with tension. Then Isabella jumped in again.

"I'm sorry, Miss Sophia, it was my idea to come. Marco was just… he's just a kind man, he was worried I couldn't handle things on my own. I promise, I won't bother him again."

Marco…

The way she said his name—so familiar, so easy, so intimite.

It felt like she was the one who had been with Marco for seven years, not me.

She turned to me, breaking the silence. "This might be rude to ask, but Miss Sophia, what brings you to the hospital?"

She was trying to change the subject.

It worked. Marco looked at me, a hint of scrutiny in his eyes.

"What's wrong? You're not feeling well?"

I forced a smile. Seeing a flicker of concern on his face, I decided to tell him the truth.

"The doctor found some lumps. He just wants me to get regular check-ups."

Isabella nodded. "Oh, that's common. So many women get benign ones."

Hearing that, Marco relaxed too, glancing at the stack of reports in my hand.

“Right,” he said, waving it off. “You’re overthinking it. A little sickness is no big deal.”

I opened my mouth to explain more—about the further tests the doctor had recommended—

But Isabella suddenly looped her arm through Marco’s, her voice a spoiled purr. “Marco, hurry up. If we don’t get to Cartier now, we’ll be late for the dinner.”

"Right, well, you get that checked out. I have to run."

As he turned to go, I clutched the report in my hand, holding on to one last sliver of hope, and asked tentatively.

"Since you're already here, won't you wait with me?"

He glanced at his watch, his tone impatient.

"Sophia, you should have told me ahead of time. I've got a family meeting I can't miss."

"Be good. I'll bring you back your favorite Bordeaux tonight."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I didn't try to stop him again.

That night, when he wasn't looking, I poured the entire bottle of wine he brought back down the toilet.

The doctor's words echoed in my head: for me, alcohol was a death sentence.

If my condition got any worse, I probably wouldn't make it to spring.

That night, I sat alone on the balcony, tears blurring the city lights into a watery haze.

I had made my decision.

I decided to take my doctor's advice and requested a long leave of absence from my studio.

But the next day, Marco found out somehow.

He dropped everything he was doing with the family, sped back to the apartment, and confronted me.

"You're taking time off? Then who the hell is going to handle Isabella's wedding?"