I was sitting on the edge of the velvet bench in the bridal boutique, slipping my feet into ivory wedding shoes that cost more than my first car. The mirror reflected a woman who looked calm, happy, almost glowing. What it didn’t show was the knot in my stomach that had been tightening for months.
My name is Emily Carter, and in three weeks, I was supposed to marry Daniel Brooks—the man everyone said I was lucky to have. He was charming, soft-spoken, and came from a “good family.” His mother, Linda Brooks, smiled often and hugged tightly, the kind of woman who called you “sweetheart” while scanning your life like a balance sheet.
That afternoon, Linda and Daniel’s aunt had stepped outside the fitting room,
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