No Place for You at My Wedding

The yacht slid into the harbor just after sunrise.

Not a soul spoke to me. Not Rowan. Not Corvin. Not even Evangeline—who had wept so dramatically the night before I almost, for a fleeting moment, believed her tears were real. Almost.

I disembarked quietly, every step heavy with salt and humiliation, my clothes clinging, my skin raw from more than the seawater. It wasn’t only my body that had nearly drowned.

Rowan had shoved me. Straight into the black tide.

And he hadn’t so much as blinked.

“That’s what you deserve,” he’d said afterward. “For being petty. For thinking the whole world owes you loyalty.”

No apology. No hand stretched out to pull me back. Not even a flicker of guilt in his expression. And when the stranger appeared, cutting through the waves and hauling me to safety at the dock—he vanished as quickly as he’d come. No name offered, no thanks taken. Just a blur fading into the crowd, like a phantom made of flesh.

I made my way home by myself. Shivering. Finished. The instant I closed my apartment door, I didn’t break down. I didn’t scream. I started packing.

Drawers thrown open, suitcases dragged across the floor. Clothes folded. Passports tucked away. Portable drives. The heirloom necklace from my grandmother. Everything that was still mine—untainted by their hands—went into the bags.

I was folding the last of my coats when my phone buzzed.

A message from Evangeline. This time, not even pretending to disguise her malice.

Hey Marceline~ Check my Insta. New uploads!

The audacity.

I unlocked the screen, already knowing what awaited me.

Her face filled the feed—smug, victorious. She was wrapped in my silk robe, the blush-pink one I had bought in Milan and left behind on the yacht. Rowan was next to her, bare-chested, drowsy, his arm curled around her shoulders, his nose nearly pressed against the swell of her chest.

On her other side, Corvin held her waist like she was royalty. No—worse. Like she was a goddess carved out of deceit.

The caption blared beneath:

Best night ever with my favorite boys Thanks for making my birthday unforgettable. Loved every whip and taste of cream

And then a little dagger meant for me:

Guess what, Marceline? Rowan gifted me your new car. Said it was his money anyway and the shade looked better on me. Don’t worry—I’ll let you borrow it… if you beg nicely.

The next post? A photo of my car. My car. Flaunted on her page.

I let out a laugh. Dry, humorless. I tapped the tiny heart under her picture, watched it turn crimson, then tossed my phone onto the bed.

By tomorrow, I’d be gone. And when I left, I wasn’t taking their shadows with me.

---

That afternoon, I filed my resignation at the firm. Handed it in with a calm smile, shook hands like I wasn’t dismantling everything I’d built. By the time I returned to the apartment, it was time for the final severing.

From beneath the bed, I dragged out an old leather box—scarred and weighty. Inside were the fragments of the past, relics of promises long since broken.

Rowan’s silver chain, etched with a phrase only the two of us had ever known. Corvin’s scratched lighter, useless but heavy with nights of smoke and secrets. Rowan’s luxury watch, its glass cracked, its hands forever stuck in silence.

Folded letters came next. Rowan’s clumsy poems he’d passed me at sixteen, swearing forever. Corvin’s midnight notes slipped beneath my dorm door when neither of us could sleep.

The leather jacket Rowan once declared was mine for life, still carrying his scent in the seams. Corvin’s dented helmet, from the bike we once swore would carry us across the countryside. And at the very bottom, a music box that played our song—our so-called anthem—its melody long faded.

Click. The lighter sparked.

I held the jacket over the flame until it curled and blackened, then tossed it into the pile. The letters followed. The chain. The lighter itself. The watch. One by one, the flames devoured them, turning memories into smoke.

By the time Rowan stormed into the room, half of everything we’d been was already nothing but embers.

“Marceline—what the hell are you doing?!” His voice broke, his eyes frantic.

I didn’t move. “Getting rid of rot.”

“Don’t give me that crap!” He lurched closer, panic bleeding into his voice. “Those aren’t junk. They’re pieces of us. They’re memories.”

Corvin barreled in behind him, his gaze darting to the burning pile. He reached out, tried to snatch something back, only to hiss when the fire kissed his fingers. “You’ve lost it. You just destroyed everything we ever had.”

I met his stare, my own steady and ice-cold. “You already gave Evangeline my car. She can have the gifts. She can keep the memories too.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “So this is it? More tantrums? More drama? You ruined her birthday last night with your childish jealousy.”

I smiled, calm and sharp. “Not tantrums. Closure. This is the last time you’ll ever see me.”

They both stood, watching as smoke spiraled upward, the ashes settling like the final burial of what we’d once been.

Funny. They had nearly set the world ablaze defending Evangeline’s crocodile tears—yet when I was breaking apart, not one of them ever asked what was wrong.

Now, here they were, mourning over ashes.