His City Hall Bride, His Cathedral Wedding

At one in the morning, I posted a short notice on my account.

[Due to personal reasons, tomorrow's wedding has been canceled. My apologies for any inconvenience.]

I didn't explain any further. I only said I didn't want to get married anymore.

The calls started pouring in almost immediately.

Some friends said I'd lost my mind. Some said men like Luca Moretti didn't come around twice. Some told me not to be impulsive, because half the Upper East Side had their eyes on him already, and if I let go now, I was practically handing him over myself.

I didn't answer a single one.

Because the man they were all talking about was already someone else's husband.

Half an hour later, my mother called. She didn't even say hello before launching in.

"Evelyn, what are you thinking? Do you have any idea who Luca is now? You can't just call off a wedding like this. You'll regret it for the rest of your life."

I stood in front of my apartment's floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the Manhattan skyline. My voice was quiet. "Mom, it isn't that I don't want him. He stopped choosing me first."

The line went still for a moment.

Then she said, stubborn as ever, "Men always have things going on outside the house. You let it go. You get past it. As long as the wedding happens, you'll still be Mrs. Moretti, and that's what matters."

I closed my eyes.

"I don't want a title that has to be earned by swallowing my pride."

Then I ended the call.

After that, I contacted everyone involved in the wedding -- the planner, the florist, the drivers, the band, the hotel.

"Everything for tomorrow is canceled."

The wedding director sounded stunned. "Ms. Carter... but Mr. Moretti said the ceremony was still on."

"I'm saying it's canceled," I cut in. "Don't issue any refunds. Donate the flowers, the cake, and the champagne to the church and a shelter. As for how he explains it, that's his problem."

She hesitated, then finally said she understood.

Next I called a friend at a private auction house and arranged to sell off everything I could.

The white baby grand piano in the living room that I had bought myself. Sold.

The gowns and jewelry I'd set aside for my married life. Sold.

The Aston Martin in the garage I'd been driving for two years. Sold.

The French furniture in the sitting room, the set I had gone back and forth with the designer over three separate times. Sold.

It wasn't revenge.

I just wanted to strip every trace of Luca, and every trace of this wedding, out of my life.

Right before dawn, a bank notification came through.

It was a returned transfer: the one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar wedding fund Lorraine Moretti -- Luca's mother -- had wired me before.

I sent the full amount back.

The transfer went through almost instantly. I looked at the confirmation on the screen for a moment, then locked my phone and set it aside.

Lorraine Moretti had always liked me. In all these years, she had treated me with more warmth and respect than anyone else in the Moretti family ever did. Even the money for the wedding had been sent to me personally, because she said I was the only bride she had ever truly acknowledged.

I stared at the darkened screen and felt nothing but exhaustion.

But this time, I wasn’t going to clean up anybody else’s mess.