Second Best-Part 1
The bridal suite at the Veligrad Imperial Hotel shimmered in golden light, but Emily Sullivan felt none of it.
She sat motionless at the vanity, her bare shoulders wrapped in a silk robe, her eyes locked on the stranger in the mirror. The curls in her dark hair were perfect. Her makeup flawless. Her smile—carefully engineered.
‘If you walk through that door,’ she thought, ‘you’re not Emily anymore. You’re his wife. His partner. His puppet.’
“Chloe,” she said quietly, “do I look like a politician’s wife?”
Behind her, Chloe gasped like she’d been slapped. “Excuse me? You look like a goddess who married the politician because he begged on his knees.”
Emily offered a faint smile. Chloe had always been this way—bright, romantic, too loyal for her own good. A college dorm mate turned best friend. Her lifeline during the loneliest years.
“If I ever write a book about this wedding,” Emily muttered, “I’ll call you Cinnamon Roll. The sweetest chapter.”
Chloe tugged at her veil. “You’re just nervous. Totally normal. You’re marrying Brian Karanell. The media is obsessed. The internet’s melting down. And you—” she paused—“are glowing.”
Emily turned toward the mirror. The glow wasn’t real. It was blush, bronzer, and good lighting. But Chloe’s joy was too sincere to ruin.
Then came the click of the door.
Carol entered, dressed in a midnight blue gown far too formal for a mother-of-the-bride who hadn’t lifted a finger to plan anything. Her eyes swept the room, landing on Chloe with disdain.
“Still here?” she said, coolly. “You must really enjoy tagging along.”
Chloe blinked. Emily stepped in. “She’s my maid of honor. Of course she’s here.”
Carol gave a tight smile. “Right.”
She approached Emily and adjusted a wrinkle that didn’t exist in her robe. “Marriage is compromise. Brian may not be perfect, but he’s powerful. That’s what matters. Men come and go. Power stays.”
Emily closed her eyes. Same speech. Different day.
A memory tugged—Carol practicing smiles before foundation galas. Whispering, ‘It’s not about who you are. It’s about who you’re standing next to.’
But Emily hadn’t always lived by those rules.
Once, long ago, she had been just a happy child in a modest apartment with her father. He’d been a kind man—a former internal medicine resident who left his training early to work in the pharmaceutical industry, trying to support their little family. They didn’t have much, but they had enough. And for a while, she felt safe. Truly loved—until the headaches started. Glioblastoma, they said. A word too big for a little girl to understand. He was gone by the time she turned three.
She never forgot the sound of silence that followed him.
Carol changed after that. Restless. Disconnected. Desperate to belong somewhere powerful, somewhere golden. And she found it in the halls of Westbridge Hospital, where she worked as a nurse and where Dean Akaris—then a charismatic urologist—noticed her.
It started as an affair. Dean was married then, with a son, Sam. The scandal broke when a fellow nurse reported it to the hospital board. Dean resigned before he could be dismissed. He divorced his wife, severed ties, and pivoted into politics—joining the main opposition party and quickly rising through the ranks.
He married Carol shortly after.
But it wasn’t love.
It was optics. A clean slate. A new narrative. Carol left nursing behind and became Mrs. Akaris—well-dressed, well-placed, and well-rehearsed.
Behind closed doors, however, she was constantly belittled. So was Emily.
“You’re lucky he took us in,” Carol used to whisper through clenched teeth. “We don’t get to complain.”
Emily learned early to disappear into books and grades. She studied until her eyes burned, determined to escape. By fourteen, she had earned a full scholarship to Veligrad National Academy—the most elite school in the country.
Dean had raised his glass that night at a riverside restaurant, smirking.
“Sam, my boy, couldn’t get in—shock—but you? Top percentile. Crushed the exam. And that sweet little orphan card got you the scholarship. Bravo.”
He handed her wine like it was a trophy.
Later that night, Sam came into her room. Uninvited.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Don’t let anyone touch you at that new school. Wait for me.”
Then his lips found hers. She didn’t know how to respond—heart pounding, body frozen.
It was her first kiss. Her first betrayal.
Years later, when Emily was preparing to graduate, Dean began an affair with a younger woman. Carol begged him not to go, but Dean, true to form, discarded her like a worn-out campaign leaflet. He gave her the modest villa on the outskirts of Veligrad as part of the alimony settlement and never looked back.
Carol never recovered her pride.
And Emily? She never forgot how little she meant in the rooms where power spoke.
A knock pulled her back.
“I think it’s time,” Carol said.
Emily rose, her breath catching in her throat. “Yes. It’s time.”
Carol and Chloe stepped out. Emily remained, alone with the mirror.
“You’ve survived worse,” she whispered. “This is nothing.”
Then she opened the door.
And there he was.
Sam Akaris.
Standing in the hallway in a black tuxedo. Eyes red. Voice low.
“You look… beautiful,” he said. And for a second, Emily was fourteen again.
—
