Chapter 51
The morning of Isla’s wedding arrived with a golden sunrise, the sky painted in soft pastels of peach and lavender. A crisp breeze whispered through the open window, carrying with it the scent of fresh roses and the distant hum of quiet preparations below.
She stirred as the cool gust of air kissed her cheeks, sending a shiver down her spine. The silk sheets pooled around her as she blinked, momentarily disoriented. But then, as her gaze adjusted to the soft light filtering through the room, she realized—today was the day.
A rustling sound pulled her attention toward the foot of the bed, where Maggie stood, her hands deftly pulling back the curtains with a dramatic flourish. Sunlight flooded the room, bathing the walls in warm gold.
“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Maggie beamed, her voice brimming with excitement, her eyes twinkling with joy. “Rise and shine, bride-to-be!”
A delighted giggle bubbled from Isla’s lips as she pushed the covers aside and jumped off the bed, her bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor. Without hesitation, she darted toward the window, her breath catching as she looked outside.
And there it was—her wedding taking shape before her very eyes.
The sprawling garden below was alive with movement. A long, ivory carpet was being unrolled across the lush green grass, its edges held down by careful hands as staff members worked to smooth every crease. Elegant chairs, adorned with soft white covers and delicate gold ribbons, were being carefully placed in neat rows, facing the grand floral arch that stood at the end of the aisle.
Near the fountain, the catering service bustled about, setting up tables draped in pristine white linens, their surfaces soon to be adorned with decadent food and crystal glasses filled with champagne. Silverware clinked softly as it was meticulously arranged, the soft murmur of instructions blending with the rustling leaves overhead.
A little farther away, by the gazebo, Pastor Romero stood in quiet contemplation, his aged hands clasped in front of him as he surveyed the preparations. The priest, a gentle soul from their local church, had always been a part of their lives, and now he would be the one to bless their union. The sight of him standing there, in his neatly pressed robes, made the reality of it all sink in.
This wasn’t just a dream.
This was real.
Her wedding—the day she had never allowed herself to truly picture—was happening.
The sight of it sent a rush of emotions crashing through her. Excitement, anticipation, and a lingering hint of nerves tangled in her chest. She gripped the windowsill, inhaling deeply, letting the fresh morning air calm her racing heart.
“Oh God, Maggie! Am I late?” Isla’s voice rang out, loud and panicked, before she even registered what she was saying.
The words barely left her lips before she noticed Maggie grimacing, hands clamped firmly over her ears, her face scrunched in exaggerated agony.
Realization struck like a bolt of lightning. Isla had been shouting.
As always, when she got too excited, she forgot to control the volume of her voice. A nervous giggle bubbled up as she clapped a hand over her own mouth. “I’m so sorry, Maggie,” she said between breaths, laughter spilling through her apology.
Maggie, ever dramatic, sighed deeply as she lowered her hands. “Isla, my dear, I’d like to make it through this day without going deaf.” But the corners of her lips twitched upward in amusement. “And no, you’re not late, but if you keep spinning in circles like that, you might make yourself dizzy before we even start getting you ready.”
Isla didn’t care. She was too giddy, too alive with excitement. With an impish grin, she twirled on her toes, letting the soft silk of her nightgown flutter around her as she moved. Her heart pounded, not from nerves, but from pure joy.
This is it.
Her big day.
The morning had been a whirlwind of excitement, filled with soft laughter and the hum of preparations. Isla had been floating on a cloud of anticipation, heart thrumming with the kind of joy she never thought she’d allow herself to feel.
And then, the second speed bump arrived.
It came in the form of a perfectly manicured hand gripping a sleek white garment bag, draped effortlessly over a delicate arm.
Layla Anderson.
The moment Isla saw her standing in the doorway, her heart stumbled in her chest. The room, which had been buzzing with energy, seemed to still as an unspoken tension settled in the air.
Layla looked exactly as Isla remembered—tall, impossibly elegant, with the kind of effortless beauty that made her look like she had just stepped off a magazine cover. Her honey-blonde hair was styled in soft waves, her makeup was impeccable, and her lips—painted in the perfect shade of muted rose—curved into a knowing smile.
But it wasn’t just her presence that made Isla’s stomach tighten.
It was the dress she was holding.
Graham had told her not to worry about it. That he would handle everything. At the time, Isla had felt a flicker of disappointment—what bride wouldn’t want to pick out her own gown? But she had let it go, soothed by the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something romantic about him choosing the dress she would wear to marry him.
But now, standing in front of her, holding the very dress Graham had selected, was the one woman Isla never wanted to see today.
Layla Anderson wasn’t just some fashion designer.
She was Graham’s ex.
And not just any ex—the longest relationship Isla had ever known Graham to have. Two years together. Two very public years. She could still remember the media frenzy surrounding them—the glamorous galas, the luxurious vacations, the articles speculating whether Graham would finally settle down. There had even been rumors that he had come close to proposing.
Now, Isla’s wedding dress—the most important gown of her life—had been chosen by her fiancé and delivered by the woman he had almost married.
Her throat tightened.
Layla, of course, looked utterly at ease, as if this moment was nothing more than a business transaction. “Good morning,” she said smoothly, her voice rich and honeyed, her sharp green eyes flicking over Isla’s robe-clad frame. “I suppose it’s time for the big reveal.”
Isla felt Maggie stiffen beside her. The room was still, the tension stretching between them like a thread pulled too tight.
Isla swallowed, forcing herself to smile. “You’re the designer?”
Layla’s lips curled, a hint of amusement flickering in her gaze. “I am. Graham insisted on only the best.” She stepped forward, lifting the dress bag slightly as if presenting a masterpiece. “And, well, who knows him better than me?”
The words were a dagger, sharpened to perfection.
The Betrayal in a Wedding Dress
The moment Layla had unzipped that garment bag, Isla had felt something inside her snap.
Anger, raw and unfiltered, surged through her like a storm, chasing away any remnants of the excitement she had woken up with that morning. Without thinking, without caring about Maggie’s frantic protests behind her, she stormed down the hallway, the plush carpet muffling the sharp click of her hurried steps.
“Isla, stop!” Maggie hissed, grabbing at her wrist, her voice laced with desperation. “You can’t see the groom before the wedding—it’s bad luck!”
Isla barely spared her a glance. “I already feel like I have the worst luck in the world,” she muttered, wrenching free and pressing forward.
She wasn’t sure if it was the shock, the humiliation, or the deep-seated pain curling in her chest that pushed her forward, but she knew one thing—she needed answers.
Reaching Graham’s door, she didn’t hesitate. She raised her fist and knocked—hard.
The door swung open faster than she expected, and there he was.
Graham.
Dressed in nothing but black slacks, his shirt unbuttoned, his broad chest exposed. His dark hair was still damp from a shower, droplets of water trailing down his collarbone. But the warmth, the softness she had foolishly expected in his gaze?
Nowhere to be found.
Instead, his jaw was tight, his mouth pressed into a firm line as his stormy eyes locked onto hers. His entire posture radiated something dangerous—something warning.
And yet, Isla didn’t care.
She stepped inside, hands balled into fists at her sides. “Why did you invite Layla?” she demanded, her voice sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.
Graham barely reacted. He exhaled, slow and measured, as if she were a child throwing a tantrum. “Because she’s my friend.”
That was it. That was all he gave her. No explanation. No apology. No understanding of why this would hurt her.
Something about the way he said it—so nonchalant, so dismissive—sent a fresh wave of fury through her.
“I thought you’d at least explain—”
“What the hell are you doing?” he cut her off, his voice cold now, laced with irritation. His gaze flicked past her for a brief moment, catching sight of movement in the hallway—one of the catering staff passing by. His lips curled in displeasure before his focus returned to her.
“Are you really making a scene here?” he hissed, his voice low and sharp.
Her breath hitched.
“Go back to your room and get dressed,” he ordered, his tone like steel. “Layla assured me the dress is tasteful and will look good enough on you.”
Good enough?
The words were like a slap.
Isla’s hands trembled at her sides, a slow burn creeping through her veins. He hadn’t even seen the dress himself. Hadn’t bothered to check if she would love it, if it was something she’d feel beautiful in. Because he didn’t care.
She swallowed hard, trying to fight back the sudden sting in her eyes. It was just a dress. She was marrying the man she had dreamed of for years. What did it matter what she wore?
But suddenly, this wasn’t about a dress anymore.
It was about choices.
Her choices.
Her voice.
Her worth.
“You didn’t ask me what I wanted,” she whispered, her voice quieter now, but shaking with restrained emotion. “You decided to ask her about my wedding dress. Not me.”
A shadow crossed Graham’s face, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes—but it was gone as quickly as it had come. Instead, he let out a sharp breath, as if she was testing his patience.
“And make the same mistake I made when I let you choose a dress for that party in New York?” he snapped, his words dripping with disdain.
Isla’s lips parted slightly, a lump forming in her throat.
“I think I believe in Layla’s choice a little more,” he added, the final blow, his voice void of any hesitation.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Isla barely registered the movement behind her—another staff member walking past, casting them a curious glance.
But it was Graham who stepped back first. Who straightened his shoulders and exhaled sharply, as if done with this conversation. “Now stop making a scene,” he muttered. “And go get dressed for the wedding.”
And that said it all.
The floor beneath her felt unsteady, as if something deep within her had cracked, sending fractures through the foundation of everything she had believed about them.
Graham didn’t value her opinions.
Didn’t think she was capable of choosing something as simple as a dress for her own wedding.
Didn’t care that it hurt her.
The dull ache near her heart grew heavier, spreading through her chest, her limbs, her very bones.
Something inside her whispered, Isla, wake up. This is who he is.
But she couldn’t afford to listen. Not today. Not when everything had already been planned, set in motion.
So, she did the only thing she could.
She turned around.
Silent as a ghost, she walked back to her room, her hands curled into the fabric of her robe, her throat tight with unshed tears.
Maggie was waiting for her, a desperate attempt at a reassuring smile on her lips. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you ready.”
But nothing—not the gown, not the flowers, not the whispered congratulations from the staff—could shake the sinking feeling in Isla’s chest.
Because, for the first time, she wasn’t just angry.
She wasn’t just hurt.
She was wondering if she had made a mistake.
A mistake that would cost her far more than just a wedding dress.