Tall. Blond. Decked in white from head to toe, waiting for his bride at the altar, his curls slicked down with gel and a lily inhis breast pocket, and…
… the face of my worst nightmares.
My palms go clammy. My heart starts hammering, wild, the heartbeat of prey caught out in the open, defenseless, hopeless.
I try to make myself small in my chair, frantically looking around for an exit route, but the other guests are blocking me in.
At that moment, the march starts playing.
If I stand now, he’ll see me, I realize, panic rising through my throat. If I stand—
But he sees me anyway.
I feel it in my gut—the second our eyes make contact.
The moment I know, irrevocably, how f****d I am.
Because my abusive ex just recognized me.
The man I ran away from.
The man I changed my name for.
