My Husband Took His Best Friend on Our Honeymoon

The next morning, the London sky was a dull, heavy gray.

Bryan and Halle made their game clear from the start.

When we entered the museum, they walked two paces ahead. They whispered by glass cases and pointed at ancient marble statues. At pedestrian crossings, Bryan took Halle’s elbow and hurried across the street. He never once looked back to see if I was behind them.

I was invisible to him.

Except I wasn't alone.

When Bryan and Halle slipped through an archway into a packed gallery, Liam didn't rush to follow them. Instead, he pulled out his phone. He spoke a few quiet words in a low, level voice. Two minutes later, a museum director in a sharp suit appeared at our side with a silver key.

"Right this way, Mr. Evans," the director murmured with a deep bow.

He unlocked a heavy velvet rope, guiding Liam and me into a private balcony gallery overlooking the entire hall. It was quiet and empty. Down below, Bryan and Halle were jostling through the thick crowd of tourists, crane-necked and annoyed.

I looked down at them, then turned to Liam. "How did you do that?"

Liam tucked his phone away. His eyes softened. "I told you. I have resources here, Say."

Later, on the South Bank, the wind off the Thames was biting and cold. Bryan and Halle walked fast again, lost in their own world. Bryan held her umbrella low, keeping the drizzle off her hair while leaving the rest of the sidewalk open.

Liam slowed his long stride to match mine. He stepped between me and the river wind, blocking the chill.

"Forget about them," Liam said quietly. "What do you actually want to see today, Saylor?"

No one had asked me that question since we landed. The lump in my throat tightened, but I swallowed it down and smiled. "The bookshops," I said. "Just the old bookshops."

"Then that's where we go," he said.

At one o'clock, Bryan stopped on a street corner, checking his watch.

"We're eating near Soho," Bryan announced. He turned to Halle with a fond, knowing look. "That little bistro we’ve always wanted to try together. The one with the truffle pasta."

Halle clapped her hands. "Oh, finally! I’ve been craving it since we talked about it in May."

I stopped walking.

May. We got married in October.

They had planned this London trip months before the wedding. While I was picking out floral arrangements and tasting cake fillings, Bryan was bookmarking restaurants with Halle.

My knuckles turned white around the strap of my purse. I felt a stinging heat behind my eyes, but I kept my face smooth. Ice cold.

"That place is mediocre," Liam cut in, his voice cutting through the damp air. "The kitchen cuts corners."

Bryan’s chin jerked up. "Excuse me? It has great reviews."

"Reviews for tourists," Liam said flatly. "We’re going to Le Gabriel."

Bryan scoffed. "You can't just walk into Le Gabriel. It’s a two-star Michelin. You need reservations six months out."

Liam pulled out his phone, dialed a three-digit extension, and held the receiver to his ear. "Table for four. Now."

Twenty minutes later, the maître d' was bowing us into a corner booth lined in deep burgundy velvet. The head chef personally stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a pristine white apron, to shake Liam's hand.

"Always an honor, Mr. Evans," the chef said warmly. "Your favorite vintage is already breathing."

Bryan sat stiffly across the table. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped under his skin. His face flushed a dark, mottled red. Every time the sommelier poured our wine, Bryan picked up his fork and set it down, unable to find a single flaw to criticize. He was completely outmatched, and he knew it.

That evening, we met for dinner at a lounge in Mayfair.

Halle sat next to Bryan, her shoulder pressed firmly against his. She had spent the entire cab ride laughing loudly at nothing.

Under the table, my phone buzzed in my lap. A social media alert popped up.

*Halle Jordan just shared a new post.*

I tapped the screen.

It was a photo taken at the restaurant entrance twenty minutes ago. Bryan was looking down at Halle with a bright, adoring grin. Halle was leaning back against his chest, eyes crinkling, cheeks flushed with wine. They looked like a couple deeply in love.

I was in the photo, too. Or part of me was. My left shoulder was blurred at the far edge of the frame, cut off and discarded.

The caption read: *London with my favorite person 🖤.*

I stared at the comments rolling in from Bryan’s college friends.

*Finally!* one wrote.

*Are you two finally official?* wrote another.

*About time, Bry!*

None of them even knew I was in the country. To the world, Bryan had flown to England with his true love.

Across the table, Halle looked at me. A smug, toxic little smile curved her painted lips. She raised her cocktail glass in a silent, mocking toast.

My pulse didn't race. My heart didn't break.

Something inside me simply clicked shut, like a heavy steel door.

Under the linen tablecloth, my right hand found my left ring finger.

The gold band felt cold. Heavy. Worthless.

I twisted it past the knuckle. I slid it off my finger, opened my clutch, and dropped the ring into the dark bottom of my purse.

When I brought my bare hand back to the table and rested it beside my glass, Liam looked down.

His dark eyes caught the pale, empty mark on my skin. He didn't say a word. He just reached across the white linen, his large, warm hand covering mine, and squeezed.