My Groom Cheated With My Sister At Our Wedding

The funeral home smelled of lilies and formaldehyde, a combination that made my empty stomach churn. I stood at the reception desk, gripping the edge of the polished wood to keep myself upright. Three days since I'd left the hospital. Three days since they told me my daughter was gone.

"I need to arrange a burial," I whispered to the director, a kind-faced man with silver hair. "For my baby."

He nodded sympathetically, pulling out forms. "Of course. Do you have the remains?"

The word 'remains' hit me like a physical blow. "The hospital... they said the father would handle it."

"I see." He made a note. "And the father's name?"

"Ethan Grant."

Recognition flickered in his eyes—everyone knew the Grant name. "I'll need to contact him for authorization."

My hands trembled as I gave him Ethan's number. I waited in a chair that felt too soft, too comfortable for my raw grief, while he made the call. Through the glass partition, I watched his expression shift from professional courtesy to confusion.

"Ms. Carter?" He returned, looking uncomfortable. "Mr. Grant says there's been a misunderstanding. He claims there's nothing to arrange."

"What?" The room tilted.

"He said, and I quote, 'It wasn't viable. The hospital handled disposal.'"

Disposal. Like medical waste. Like she'd never existed at all.

I don't remember leaving the funeral home. The next thing I knew, I was standing in the rain outside Ethan's building, security refusing to let me pass. My calls went straight to voicemail. My texts unanswered.

Back in my apartment, I sat on the bathroom floor, counting the sleeping pills I'd been prescribed after the C-section. Twenty-three little white promises of oblivion. The doctor had warned me to take only one at bedtime.

I lined them up on the counter like soldiers. My reflection in the mirror was a stranger—hollow cheeks, dead eyes, skin like paper. What was the point of continuing? My daughter was gone, reduced to nothing, not even granted the dignity of a grave I could visit.

The rain outside had turned to sleet, tapping against the window like tiny fingers. I thought of her fingers, so small and perfect in the ultrasound images. Had they been perfect in real life too? I'd never know. Ethan had stolen even that from me.

I wrote no note. What was there to say? That I'd been foolish enough to love a monster? That I'd failed to protect my baby even before she was born?

The pills went down easier than I expected, chased with the expensive vodka Ethan had left in my freezer months ago. How fitting that his gift would be my exit.

I lay on my bed, watching the ceiling blur and spin. My phone buzzed on the nightstand, but I couldn't reach it. Didn't want to. The darkness creeping in from the edges of my vision felt like mercy.

*Emma.* I'd named her Emma in my heart, even if no official record would ever show it. *I'm coming, baby. Mommy's coming.*

The darkness was almost complete when I heard it—pounding on my door. Voices. Then nothing.

I woke to the steady beep of machines and the sting of an IV in my arm. The ICU. Somehow, impossibly, I was alive.

"There she is." A nurse smiled down at me. "You gave us quite a scare."

"How?" My throat felt like sandpaper.

"Anonymous 911 call. Said you were in danger. Good thing too—another hour and..." She trailed off.

I turned my head to see my phone on the bedside table. The screen showed missed calls from an unknown number and one text from 'N': *Please don't give up. The world needs your light, even when you can't see it.*

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. My anonymous friend, watching over me even when I'd given up on myself.

But my reprieve was short-lived. The door burst open, and my mother swept in like an avenging angel in Chanel.

"You selfish little bitch," Eleanor hissed, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my arm. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The gossip? The speculation?"

"My baby died," I whispered.

"And you thought killing yourself would help? All you've done is create more scandal." She pulled out her phone, showing me a social media post. "'Grant Ex Attempts Suicide After Secret Baby Drama.' We're the laughingstock of Manhattan."

She leaned closer, her breath smelling of gin despite the early hour. "You're going to fix this. Nathan West needs a wife, and you're going to be it."

"Nathan West?" The name was familiar—old money, rumors of instability, wheelchair-bound after some accident.

"He's willing to overlook your... situation. You'll meet him tomorrow. And Lily?" Her smile was sharp as glass. "You'll say yes, or I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of unstable, attention-seeking whore you really are."

She left me there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I'd actually died and this was hell. Tomorrow I'd meet Nathan West. Tomorrow I'd trade one prison for another.

But at least I'd be away from them. Away from Ethan, from Victoria, from my mother.

Away from the ghost of a baby girl who'd never even had a grave.