AVA’S POV
The morning of my wedding did not start with birdsong or the soft glow of a new beginning. It started with the sharp, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, sounding like a countdown to an execution.
I sat motionless in front of the vanity, my reflection appearing like a stranger’s. The makeup artist, a woman with silent hands and a neutral expression had spent the last two hours erasing the exhaustion from my face. She had used concealers to hide the dark circles from my sleepless night and a pale rose tint to bring life back to my cheeks.
But she couldn't hide my eyes. They looked haunted, reflecting the blue light of the projector screen that still played on a loop in my mind.
"You’re breathtaking, Miss Hart," the woman whispered, stepping back to admire
