Chapter 1
The ballroom smelled like white roses and warm sugar, and the fairy lights draped from the heritage hotel ceiling threw a soft gold over everything. I stood under the flower arch holding Rafael's hands. My beaded gown caught every light, the pearl waistband tight around my ribs, my mom's antique sapphire brooch cold against my chest. Guests were blurred behind us in their chairs, programs in laps, waiting. The string quartet had gone quiet. Five minutes to walk.
Bianca stood ten feet to my left by the gift table and she was wearing my dress. Not a similar dress. The same beading, the same pearl waist, the same cut that my seamstress had pinned for three fittings on my body. She laughed at something the coordinator said and smoothed her hands over the hips like it was hers. Rafael didn't let go of my hands. He squeezed once, like he was steadying me, like he was proud of how well I was taking it.
My name is Celeste Aragon, and that morning I'd pinned that brooch on myself in the private dressing suite while my mom's sister cried.
The coordinator stepped forward with a dark wooden box in both hands. Rafael had called it a detail. He'd said Bianca felt nervous and left out, that it would be funny if we included her, that her family had known his forever. I hadn't understood until I saw the cream card inside the box. Substitute Bride. The letters were printed clean and centered, propped against the velvet lining. The box was open and angled toward me, like an offering.
Rafael lifted the lid a little wider. "It's just a game," he said.
I didn't answer at first. I looked at the card, then at Bianca in the beading that should have been on me alone, then at Rafael's bow tie, perfectly straight, his boutonniere fresh. My hand went by habit to the sapphire at my chest. The pearl drop earrings brushed my neck when I tilted my head. Someone behind us coughed. The warm lights buzzed faintly.
Inside the same box, under the card, the velvet had a ring dent. My ring. The large square diamond Rafael had slid onto my finger eight months ago on the balcony of my father's house in Tagaytay. I felt its weight suddenly, heavy and loose. I started to pull.
I worked the ring up past the knuckle, slow. The metal dragged. My fingers were cold. Rafael's hand was still lightly holding mine, and I had to turn my wrist to free it. The band cleared the joint with a small catch. I held it pinched between my thumb and forefinger over the open box. The stone threw a hard white flash under the fairy lights. My breathing was audible to me alone.
"It's not about the gown," I said.
Rafael smiled, that quick, smoothing smile he used with hotel managers and his mom. "Don't make it a thing," he said.
I looked at Bianca again. She wasn't looking at me. She was adjusting the veil - my veil - where it sat on her hair. My veil was supposed to be on my hair. Mine was still pinned behind my shoulders, sheer and weightless. Rafael's fingers brushed my wrist like he wanted the ring back.
May you like
"Please," he said.
The ballroom doors at the far end began to open. The coordinator glanced over his shoulder, hand raised to cue the quartet. I could hear the soft roll of the door hinges, the murmur of guests turning in their seats, the inhale before my name was called. My ring hung suspended over the Substitute Bride card, over the velvet dent that had been waiting for it. I hadn't dropped it yet.
