REJECTED BRIDE

Chapter 1 Here's a fun fact about hospitals: they never let you forget you're alive. Something is always beeping, or squeaking, or being wheeled past your door at three in the morning. The machines around my bed went quiet weeks ago. I still hear them. Old habit, I guess. Some part of me is still counting. Tonight, though, it's not machines that wake me. It's voices. Low ones, out in the hallway. And I know exactly who owns the loudest. Isabelle Rousseau has been trying to whisper for three months and has never once succeeded. It's honestly impressive. Some people just aren't built for it. "No, I understand she saved you. I'm not ungrateful, Adrien. But saved you or not, she's crippled. Do you understand what that means for this family? The Rousseau name cannot be carried by a woman in a wheelchair." I don't move. I keep my eyes on the water stain on the ceiling. It looks like a wing, or a bad map of Italy. I've had a lot of time to decide. Carried. Like I'm a piece of furniture. Like I'm the sofa nobody wants in the front room. "She's my fiancée." That's Adrien. Flat. Tired. Not his bedside voice, the soft one. This one is smaller. "Your fiancée? I found out from a hospital form, Adrien. A form. Some nobody got tangled up with this family behind my back, and now it's all out in the open. What do I tell people? That my son's fiancée can't walk down the aisle? That she can't walk at all?" "Maman." "Don't 'Maman' me. Six weeks I sat through hospital visits and press blackouts, pretending the merger wasn't slipping because you couldn't leave her bedside. My patience has a limit." Some nobody. I've been on two magazine covers. I've walked in Paris. I once had a photographer cry because the light hit my face at the right angle. And in this hallway, tonight, I'm some nobody. "The Delacroix family has already agreed to terms," Isabelle says. "The wedding will be small and quiet. No press until the merger clears." My hand finds the edge of my blanket and squeezes until it hurts. Okay, Adrien. This is it. This is the whole moment, right here. All you have to do is say one word. It's short. It's two letters. I've heard you say it to waiters. No. Nothing. The silence stretches out so long I almost feel sorry for him. "I need time to think," he finally says. And I think, very calmly: Oh. That's worse than yes. • • • Three months ago, none of this needed saying out loud. Three months ago, I was Margot Vasseur. Twenty-six. Four years into modeling, two covers, one runway booking in Milan I never got to walk. And I had a man I loved, in secret, whose family knew nothing about me. Yes, secret. It sounds romantic, right? A hidden engagement, stolen kisses, the whole thing. That's what I told myself, anyway. He asked me in a parked car outside my apartment. No ring yet. He just pressed his forehead against mine while we both laughed at how impossible it was. "My mother would lose her mind," he said. "So we won't tell her," I said. I remember thinking it felt like a secret worth keeping. Not a shame worth hiding. I was twenty-six. I thought those were different things. Then came the crosswalk. A delivery truck ran the light. Adrien was looking down at his phone, three steps into the street. He didn't look up. And here's the thing nobody believes when I tell them: I don't remember deciding to run. There was no plan. No heroic thought. My body just moved, faster than my brain could argue with it, like it had already made the decision years ago and was only waiting for the chance. Then the impact. Then an ambulance ceiling. Then a surgeon with a face carefully arranged into the gentleness people use right before they say something awful. Significant spinal trauma. The chances of full mobility returning are very slim. I asked him if slim meant impossible. He didn't answer. I'd spent four years reading faces for a living. I knew what that meant. • • • Adrien comes in an hour later, once his mother's perfume has faded out of the hallway. He takes the chair beside my bed like it's his. Honestly, at this point, it is. "Hey," he says. "How are you feeling?" "Fine." Fine. Best word in the English language. It means anything you want it to. "The doctor said the new brace might help with moving around." "Mm." He reaches for my hand. Some old reflex almost lets him. Then I tuck my fingers into my lap instead. He notices. I watch him notice. And then I watch him decide not to say anything about it. That's Adrien, really. He's the kindest man I've ever met, and he has never once picked a fight he could avoid. On the little table by the bed sits a wrapped box. He brought it two days ago, for my birthday, which I spent in a hospital gown, thank you very much. I haven't opened it. I don't need to. A thin gold chain. One pearl. It's the same one every year. A saleswoman once told him it was "classic," and I think that word did something permanent to his brain. I have six of them now, all in their boxes, in a drawer at home. Never worn. Here's what I've figured out about gifts: a man who loves you learns what you actually like. A man who feels guilty just remembers that a gift is owed. "Adrien." "Hm?" "Your mother was here earlier. While you two were in the hall." His hand goes still on the blanket. "You heard that." "I heard all of it." To his credit, he doesn't grab for an excuse right away. He drags a hand down his face, and then out comes the reasonable voice. I know it well. It's the voice he uses for problems he's decided are actually weather. "She's under a lot of pressure. The Delacroix deal isn't only business to her. It's the company's next five years. You know how she gets when she's scared." "She wasn't scared. She was making a plan." "That's not—" "Promise me." I'm surprised how steady I sound. "Tell me you told her no." The silence goes on one beat too long. Anyone who's ever waited on a runway knows that beat. It's the space between the music starting and your foot leaving the ground. It's the moment you find out whether you're actually going to walk. "I have to handle this carefully," he says. "If I fight her head-on, she'll only find another way, and it'll be worse for both of us. I just need time. To manage her. That's all." Manage her. As if his mother's contempt were a rainy weekend. Something you wait out instead of answering. And I look at him. I really look, the way I used to study a set before a shoot, checking where the light falls and where the shadows sit. And I feel something go very calm inside me. That's the part that scares me. Not the anger. The calm. Because I finally get it. He isn't going to say the sentence I need. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I threw my body in front of a truck for this man without a second's hesitation. And he can't throw one sentence in front of his mother for me. "You should go," I say. "Visiting hours are almost over." "Margot—" "I'm tired, Adrien." He goes. The wrapped box stays on the table. I lie in the dark and listen to the hallway settle down. When I'm sure he's really gone, I let myself cry. Not loudly. Not for long. Crying pulls at my stitches, and I've learned to budget. When I'm done, I reach for my phone. There's a message waiting. Not from the hospital. Not from Adrien. Marcus Boucher. I haven't seen that name in three years. I'm not sure why my heart is doing what it's doing. I stare at it for a long moment before I open it. There are three lines. That's all. I read them once. Then I read them again, because I'm sure I've made a mistake.