The Wedding I Designed to Die For

This was my seventh year with Marco.

Seven years.

I'd gone from a nobody to the only planner the New York families would trust with their weddings.

But with Marco, I was still stuck in the same place.

We could spend every night tangled in the sheets, kissing like the world was ending.

But when the sun came up, I was still his dirty little secret.

Late that night, I got back to our penthouse in Manhattan.

I had just laid down when my mother called.

"Christmas is coming up. Is Marco coming to Seattle this year?"

"Sophia, my girl, it's been seven years. Hasn't he proposed yet? Tell me the truth, is something wrong between you two?"

The same questions. Again.

I'd told my parents about him years ago.

But he had never once taken me to meet his family.

I closed my eyes, my voice hoarse. "Mom, we're fine. I'll let you know when there's news."

It's not like I hadn't asked Marco.

But I always got the same lines.

"You're overthinking it."

"This is a critical time for us, for the business. Just wait a little longer."

"Marriage is a matter of timing. When my position is secure, the world will know you're mine. I gave you my word, didn't I? Don't you trust me?"

If I pushed any harder, he'd just go quiet and cold.

And so, it dragged on for seven years.

The suffocating feeling from the afternoon came rushing back.

My mother was still talking on the other end. "You've been with him so long, of course your father and I are worried. We just want you to be happy..."

That's when I finally broke.

"And what good would rushing me do? If you want to know when he's going to propose, why don't you ask him yourself? I'm tired enough dealing with clients all day, can't you just give me some space!"

As soon as I said it, my eyes filled with tears.

The other end of the line went quiet. I finally gave in.

“Mom, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have talked to you that way… I’m just… I’m so tired, I didn’t mean to. I’ll bring you that cheesecake from your favorite shop next time I’m home, okay? Please forgive me.”

There was a sigh on the line.

“Oh, Sophia,” she said, her voice tired. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I’m just worried. You need to look after your health.”

I was panting by the time I finished.

After hanging up, I fumbled in a drawer, poured a handful of pills into my palm, and swallowed them dry.

Don't get emotional.

The doctor had warned me. Stress would make it worse.

I had just finished washing up when I heard the front door open.

Marco walked in, holding the Armani suit jacket from the afternoon.

"Why are you still up? I told you, end of the year is busy with family stuff. Don't wait up for me."

He leaned in to kiss me, his breath thick with the smell of whiskey.

But as he got closer, I caught a faint scent underneath it.

Isabella's custom-blended perfume. One of a kind.

I turned my head away.

I flinched away from his kiss—the first time ever.

He thought I was being playful and let out a low chuckle.

His hand went to my chest, familiar and forceful.

The pressure of his fingertips ignited a burst of sharp pain.

I choked back a sound.

He paused, looking down at his own hand, confused.

"What's this?" he murmured, his fingers probing again. "It's hard... Why?"

I pushed his probing hand away, a cold sweat breaking out on my back.

"Don't… I don't feel well today."

Marco stopped, an annoyed look on his face.

He turned and walked into the bathroom.

I picked up the shirt he'd tossed aside.

The scent clinging to the collar was the same one from his suit jacket that afternoon.

Isabella's.

I swallowed the words I had planned to say to him tonight.

All the words I’d practiced in the mirror—about the hospital’s report, the biopsy, the terror that had stolen my sleep for six nights—stuck in my throat.

What was the meaning?

I folded his shirt, laying it on the dresser.

I didn’t say a word.