As the music shifted and I started down the aisle, my heartbeat thundered louder than the violins. I saw Ethan’s parents watching my mother with thinly veiled disdain. And in that moment, something inside me snapped.
Before the officiant could speak, I stepped forward, raised my bouquet—and threw it to the floor. A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Calmly, deliberately, I lifted my hands, removed my veil, and let it fall beside the crushed flowers.
The entire venue fell silent as I turned and took my mother’s hand.
That was when I knew—this wedding, at least the version standing before us, was over.
The silence felt suffocating. Dozens of stunned faces stared at me, but none of it mattered. All I saw was my mother’s eyes—confused, hurt, trying so hard not to show it.
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