We moved inside the grand estate for formal photos. The sunroom had polished white marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water.

The photographer clapped his hands. "All right, let's get the bride and groom centered! Family and bridal party on the sides, please."

I stepped up to Tyson's right side. Before I could smooth my dress, a sharp elbow hit my ribs.

I stumbled back a step.

Destiny slipped into the space where I had just stood. She pressed her shoulder against Tyson’s chest. Her matching white gown brushed against his black pants. She let out a bright, airy giggle.

"Sorry, Kailani!" she chirped. "I'm just so used to standing next to Ty. We're practically joined at the hip anyway. You don't mind, do you?"

Tyson didn't push her away. He just chuckled, resting his hand lightly against Destiny's hip. "Relax, Kai. Let her get one picture with us. Don't be petty."

The heat crept up my neck. My thumb dug hard into the skin of my left wrist. My knuckles were bone white.

Right then, I heard the faint click of claws on marble.

Biscuit came trotting into the sunroom. He was ten years old, slow and arthritic, but he looked so proud. He wore the little ring-bearer harness I had hand-sewn for him out of soft blue velvet. He saw me and gave a tiny wag of his tail, heading straight toward my skirt.

Destiny looked down. Her face twisted into immediate disgust.

"Ugh, get it away!" she snapped.

She pulled her pointed white heel back and kicked him.

The crack of her shoe against Biscuit's old ribs sounded like snapping wood.

Biscuit let out a high, terrified yelp. His small body skidded across the slick marble floor, spinning into the base of a heavy stone planter. He landed on his side, whining, his back legs twitching.

"Biscuit!" The scream tore from my throat.

The entire room went dead silent.

I lunged forward, but someone was faster.

A man stepped out from the end of the groomsmen line. He moved without rushing, but he crossed the floor in three long strides. He dropped to both knees beside Biscuit.

His hands were completely steady. He didn't hesitate. He cradled Biscuit's gray muzzle, checking his breathing with gentle, sure fingers.

Biscuit gave a soft whimper. Then, amazingly, the old dog leaned his head against the man’s chest and went quiet.

The man scooped Biscuit up against his tuxedo. He stood up and walked straight toward me. He didn't look at Tyson. He didn't look at Destiny. He walked right past them and positioned himself at my side.

I turned my head. My breath caught in my throat.

I looked up at him.

It was the same strong, square jawline. The same slight crooked dip in the upper lip. The same way he tilted his head to the left as he checked on me.

Tyson had those features. But Tyson’s face had always felt like an empty shell. This man’s eyes were deep and familiar. They held an ache that went down to the marrow.

"He's okay," the man said softly. His voice hit me like a physical wave. "Just bruised."

*Click. Flash.*

The photographer took the picture before anyone could speak.

The bright white light blinded me. My lungs clamped shut. I could not breathe. I could not move.

"All right, let's take a break!" Clara's panicked voice broke through the silence. "Just a five-minute break, everyone!"

Tyson reached for Destiny's arm, checking her shoe as if her foot were the thing that was hurt. "Are you crazy, letting that mangy thing run loose?" he muttered at me.

I didn't hear him. I didn't care about Tyson at all.

I reached out and grabbed the groomsman’s black sleeve.

"Come with me," I whispered.

I pulled him through the side doors, dragging him into the shadowed hallway behind the heavy velvet curtains. The noise of the guests faded into a dull hum. Biscuit was still nestled safely in his arms, resting his gray chin over the man's shoulder.

My hands shook violently. I stared up at his face.

"Who are you?" My voice cracked. It came out ragged and thin. "Is this some kind of sick joke? Did someone hire you?"

He looked down at me. His eyes were dark, steady, and completely calm. There was no mockery in his expression. Only a heavy, quiet sadness.

"It's not a joke, Kailani," he said.

"Leland died three years ago," I said, my teeth chattering even though the hallway was warm. "His mother got his ashes. I saw the papers. He died in Switzerland!"

He tilted his head again. That same leftward tilt. The exact habit I had spent three years chasing in Tyson’s hollow smile.

"It's not a coincidence, Kailani," Leland said softly. "I need you to let me explain. Not here. Not right now. But I came back. I'm real."

The world tilted around me. The air rushed out of my chest.

*He's real.*

I stared at him for three agonizing seconds. I couldn't take it. The walls felt like they were caving in.

I pulled my hand back from his arm. I pressed my palm flat against the center of my sternum, trying to keep my heart from beating straight through my ribs.

Without saying a single word, I turned on my heel. I lifted my heavy ivory train and walked straight back toward the reception hall, leaving him standing in the dark.

The ballroom smelled like roasted garlic, butter, and gardenias. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, throwing bright sparks across the tables. Two hundred guests chatted, drank wine, and clinked their glasses.

I sat at the center of the elevated head table.

Underneath the white tablecloth, Biscuit lay curled over my feet. His small body trembled every time he shifted his weight. I could feel the heat radiating from his bruised ribs against my satin shoes. Every time he let out a tiny, shallow sigh, something inside my chest twisted tight.

The waiters brought out the first course: chilled jumbo shrimp on beds of crushed ice.

I picked up my silver fork. Before I could touch my plate, Tyson pushed his chair back. The wood scraped loudly against the polished floor.

He didn’t say a word to me. He didn’t even glance down.

Tyson walked straight past our bridal party and strolled across the room to the VIP table. He pulled up an empty chair right beside Destiny.

Destiny smiled up at him, glowing in her matching white dress. She touched his forearm with her manicured nails.

Tyson picked up a shrimp from her plate. He carefully tore off the shell, pinched the tail, and dipped the pink meat into the cocktail sauce. Then he placed it gently onto Destiny’s plate.

He didn’t do it once. He did it again and again. He leaned in close, laughing at something she whispered, wiping his sauce-stained fingers on a linen napkin. He looked like an attentive husband taking care of his bride.

A quiet murmur spread through the ballroom. People stopped cutting their meat. Guests exchanged uneasy looks.

Across the room, my mother sat at table four. Her back was as stiff as an iron rod. Her fork hovered an inch above her salad, completely still. Her jaw was clamped so tight that the muscles in her cheek jumped. For three years, she had stayed silent about Tyson to keep the peace. Now, she looked like a woman holding back an avalanche with her bare hands.

I sat alone at the head table. The ivory train of my dress pooled around Tyson's empty chair. My cheeks burned with a cold, hollow shame.

Then, the empty chair beside me pulled out.

Someone sat down.

I didn't turn my head. I thought it was the best man. Or maybe Clara, the coordinator, coming to tell me how to fix the optics.

Under the table, a warm, broad hand slid over mine.

I flinched. My fingers jerked back, but his palm stayed steady, gently pressing my cold knuckles against the linen. His skin was warm. Completely steady.

I looked down. On his left wrist, I saw a thin silver watch with a scratch across the glass. Leland’s watch.

My breath trapped in my throat.

Leland leaned in close. His shoulder brushed against mine. He smelled of rain and cedar—the exact scent from four years ago, before the hospital, before the fake funeral, before my whole world went dark.

"I came back for you," he whispered. His voice was rough, quiet, and right against my ear. "I never stopped."

I didn't turn to face him. I stared straight ahead at Tyson, who was currently feeding Destiny another piece of shrimp.

"You're dead," I whispered back. My lips barely moved.

"I was wrong about that," Leland said.

His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. It landed right on the spot I had been rubbing raw all morning. He knew. He remembered every nervous habit I had ever tried to hide.

A wave of heat surged through my blood, sharp and dizzying. It terrified me. I yanked my hand away from his grip and shoved it into the fold of my dress.

I didn't pull away because I hated his touch. I pulled away because my heart wanted to lean into him, and that scared me more than anything Tyson had ever done.

Leland didn't chase my hand. He just sat beside me, upright and solid, an unmovable wall between me and the rest of the room.

Elena leaned across the table from her seat as maid of honor. Her dark eyes burned with pure fury. She slid her phone across the table, tapping the screen with a manicured nail.

"Look," she murmured, keeping her voice low.

I glanced down at the screen.

Elena had taken photos of everything. There was Tyson leaning over Destiny at the VIP table. There was Destiny wearing my exact shade of white. And there was a clear, sharp picture of Biscuit's flank from twenty minutes ago, showing the purple welt forming under his gray fur where Destiny's heel had connected.

"I have every single second on burst mode," Elena whispered. Her jaw was set. "I don't know what you're going to do, Kai. But I'll be right next to you when you do it."

I looked down at the photos. Then I looked across the room at Tyson, who had just dabbed a drop of cocktail sauce from the corner of Destiny’s mouth.

Something inside me stopped hurting. The tightness in my chest vanished, replaced by an ice-cold silence.

I nodded once, tight and sharp.

"Good," I said softly.

I reached down under the heavy linen cloth. My fingers found Biscuit’s head. I gently stroked his soft, velvet ear, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my palm.

The music shifted to a gentle chime.

It was time for the rings.

The double doors at the back of the room opened. A hush fell over the two hundred guests.

Biscuit stood in the doorway.

He was ten years old. His gray muzzle trembled slightly, and he favored his left rear leg from where Destiny had kicked him earlier. But he held his head high. In his mouth, he carried the little silver ring box tied with a satin ribbon.

He took a careful step forward. His claws clicked softly on the marble.

My throat closed up. My eyes stung with sudden, sharp tears.

I looked at Biscuit and didn't see an old dog walking down a grand aisle. I saw a tiny, shivering puppy pressed against the back of a crate in Brooklyn. I saw Leland’s warm hands lifting him out ten years ago, laughing as the puppy licked his nose.

Biscuit was the last gift Leland had ever given me. He was the one thing that had kept me alive during those three hollow years. He was the only piece of truth in this entire fake day.

The guests murmured softly.

"Look at him," someone whispered.

"He's so sweet," another woman cooed.

Biscuit kept his eyes locked on me. He took another step, limping a little, but his tail gave a weak, determined wag. He was doing his job. He was bringing the rings to me.

For thirty seconds, the world felt quiet. The humiliation from the bouquet faded. The shrimp on Destiny’s plate didn't matter. It was just Biscuit, walking toward me. Everything was almost all right.

Then, white silk swished.

Destiny stepped right into the center of the aisle.

Her matching gown flared around her legs. She didn't look sweet or innocent anymore. Her mouth was twisted into a tight, ugly sneer.

She blocked Biscuit’s path.

Biscuit stopped. His ears flattened against his head. He looked up at her with big, cloudy eyes, clutching the box tight in his jaws.

Destiny reached down. Her fingers were like claws. She didn't wait for him to drop it. She snatched the ring box straight from his teeth, yanking it so hard that Biscuit whimpered.

"Filthy mutt," she muttered. Her voice was sharp and venomous.

Then she did something that made my blood run cold.

She reached down with both hands. She grabbed Biscuit by the loose skin of his scruff and the velvet harness around his chest.

She lifted him three feet into the air.

"Destiny, no!" I screamed.

She didn't hesitate. She threw him downward. She slammed his small, frail body directly onto the polished marble floor.

*Crack.*

The sound was loud. It was sick and wet, like brittle dry wood snapping under a boot. It echoed off the high ceiling and bounced against the glass windows.

The entire ballroom went dead silent. Nobody breathed.

Biscuit hit the stone and slid two inches.

He didn't yelp. He didn't whine. He didn't roll over to kick his paws.

He just lay there on his side. His gray tongue spilled out past his teeth. His cloudy brown eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. His chest did not rise.

He didn't move.

"Biscuit!"

A scream ripped out of my chest. It sounded like an animal dying.

I didn't think about the crowd. I didn't think about my veil or the cameras. I lunged forward, throwing myself off the small platform.

The heavy satin hem of my gown caught on the leg of a chair. *Riiip.* The fabric tore in half, exposing my knees, but I didn't care. I kicked my shoes off and scrambled across the floor.

I needed to reach him. I needed to hold him.

A wall of black wool stepped directly into my path.

Tyson.

His large hands caught my bare shoulders. His grip was made of iron. He shoved me back a step, keeping me from getting to Biscuit's still body.

I looked up at his face.

He didn't glance at the floor. He didn't look at the blood beginning to pool under Biscuit's ear. He didn't care that an innocent life had just ended two feet away.

Tyson’s jaw was tight. His forehead was creased with pure, cold irritation. He looked at me the way a man looks at someone who just spilled red wine on an expensive rug.

"Pull yourself together, Kailani," he said. His voice was completely flat. "Stop making a scene."

"Move!" I clawed at his chest, digging my nails into his tuxedo. "Get out of my way! Biscuit—"

"The dog was sick anyway," Tyson interrupted. He didn't even blink. "Look at Destiny. She’s terrified. You need to apologize to her right now for letting your mutt ruin our ceremony."

The words hit the room like lead weights.

The silence stretched so tight it felt ready to shatter.

Behind Tyson, Destiny stood with the silver ring box pressed to her chest. She had already pulled her face into a terrified pout, her lower lip trembling on cue.

At the head table, Elena stood up so fast her chair crashed backward onto the floor. Her hand flew to her open mouth in pure, unvarnished horror.

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

Two hundred guests held their breath, their eyes darting between Biscuit’s motionless body, Tyson’s cold sneer, and me.