It was Ethan—smiling, confident, dressed in an expensive suit. Beside him stood a stunning woman in white. Behind them, a large floral sign read: Congratulations to the Newlyweds.
Newlyweds.
Six weeks later.
Today.
The air left my lungs. Rage flooded in—sharp, cold, and powerful enough to make me stand.
I dressed quickly in an old nursing dress, wrapped Noah in his warmest blanket, and left. The long bus ride felt endless. The address led to a wealthy neighborhood, all stone gates and manicured lawns.
The bus stopped in front of a grand church. Bells rang joyfully, mocking the storm inside me.
Inside, guests in elegant clothes filled the pews. When the doors opened fully, I saw him—Ethan—standing at the altar, calm and confident, like a man without a past.
I walked forward.
When he saw me, his face drained of color. His smile collapsed. Silence swept through the church as every eye turned toward me—and the baby in my arms.
Noah slept peacefully.
The bride, Claire Whitman, was nearing the altar with her father, Richard Whitman, a stern man in a tailored suit. Confusion crossed his face as he noticed me.
“Rachel…” Ethan whispered, terror shaking his voice.