Chapter 1
Patterned rug filled my vision. White rose bouquet lay near bed leg, baby's breath scattered, single white high heel tipped on side beside it. Above me, his hand hung raised, white dress shirt sleeve rolled to elbow, knuckles tight. I sat against floral bedspread, knees pulled in, lace sleeves damp with sweat, veil tangled around shoulders. Behind him, doorway crowded with shapes — two women, two men in formal wear, hands lifted to mouths, frozen. Warm interior light made floral wallpaper glow too bright, too normal for what happened next. He breathed hard, jaw locked, and contradiction screamed inside me — this was meant to be portrait time, photographer due, champagne untouched on dresser, and now I stared at shoe I could not reach.
My name is Claire. That morning I'd stood barefoot while mom zipped my lace dress.
Time was just after ceremony, maybe three-thirty. We slipped to bridal suite for photos while guests waited downstairs. Door closed. He paced, then snapped about pose, about smile, about how I looked at groomsman too long. I lowered to floor to adjust strap on heel when his voice sharpened. I stayed there against bed because standing felt dangerous. Rug scratched backs of my calves. Bouquet fell when I let go. He stepped over it, shadow cutting across my lap, arm lifting again. Photographer knocked once, then went silent when no one answered.
His hand came down. Not slap. Grip. Fingers threaded into hair at crown, nails scraping scalp through veil. I gasped. Breath turned shallow, ragged. His grip pulled head back, then shoved forward. Veil slipped, lace pulled against neck. I saw rug pattern rush up — faded roses, tiny diamonds — smelled dust and perfume. I fell prone, hands covering head, elbows tucked, dress bunching around knees. Tulle spread over me like spilled veil. He stepped back, stood over me, chest heaving, dark trousers blocking light. My cheek pressed hard against rug, heartbeat thudded in ears.
"You tripped," he said.
I whispered, "You pushed me."
He stared toward doorway, not at me. My voice broke.
May you like
"Please stop."
Doorway air shifted. Older woman in burgundy lace dress moved. Double pearl necklace caught light as she stepped forward from group, curly blonde hair tight, stern mouth set. She lifted one hand, palm out toward him, foot crossing threshold into bedroom. Other onlookers stayed planted, shocked still. She faced him now, shoulders square, eyes locked on his. I lay motionless foreground, bouquet inches from fingertips, shoe still tipped, veil half over face. Her lips parted to speak, sound about to break tense silence — and I waited prone between them, breath held, rug burning cheek.
