I shoved Tyson’s hands off me.

I didn’t use words. I threw my entire weight forward, catching him off balance. He stumbled back a step, his polished shoe squeaking against the stone.

I fell to my knees beside Biscuit.

The marble was freezing against my bare legs. The silk of my torn dress pooled around us like a puddle of milk.

"Biscuit," I whispered. "Biscuit, baby."

I reached into the deep, hidden pocket of my skirt. My trembling fingers wrapped around the soft cotton. It was his favorite pale yellow blanket, folded tight, worn thin at the edges from ten years of washes. I unfolded it with shaking hands and laid it over his small, limp body.

He was still warm.

I pressed my palm flat against his ribs. I waited.

*Thump.* Just one. Please, just one.

Nothing.

I pressed two fingers against his neck, digging into the soft gray fur behind his jaw. There was no pulse. His chest was completely still. His cloudy eyes stared at the ceiling, unblinking under the glare of the crystal chandeliers.

A small trickle of dark blood leaked from the corner of his ear, staining the yellow hem of the blanket.

My chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out all my organs with a blade. I couldn't cry. My throat was too tight for air.

Around me, the room blurred. Two hundred guests sat frozen at their round tables. Champagne flutes paused in midair. Nobody coughed. Nobody whispered.

Through the haze, I saw a shadow fall over the floor.

Leland had moved through the crowd. He stopped six feet away, right at the edge of my vision. He didn't speak. He didn't rush in to play the hero. He just stood there, tall and still, his eyes locked on me. He was close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I fell.

Tyson cleared his throat. The sound was loud and harsh in the quiet room.

He adjusted his bowtie. He smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, looking out across the sea of guests. He forced a stiff, practiced smile.

"It's fine, everyone," Tyson called out, waving a casual hand. "It was just an accident. The dog got loose and tripped. Can we please move on?"

He turned to the coordinator. "Clara, cue the music. Let's finish the processional."

Beside him, Destiny gave a soft, theatrical whimper. She cradled the silver ring box against her chest with one hand. With the other, she dabbed at her cheek. There was a tiny red scratch near her jawline where Biscuit’s velvet harness had brushed against her skin.

"He attacked me, Ty," she whispered, her voice carrying just enough for the front row to hear. Her lower lip quivered. "I was just trying to save the rings. I was so scared."

Tyson put an arm around her shoulder. He patted her arm gently. "I know, Des. You're fine. I've got you."

A chair scraped against the floor.

It wasn't a loud noise, but it cut through the room like a gunshot.

My mother stood up.

She had been sitting in the front row, wearing a simple navy dress. Her face was pale, but her eyes were like dark flint. She didn't look at Tyson. She didn't spare a single glance for Destiny's fake tears.

She stepped onto the center aisle.

My mother walked with slow, deliberate steps. Her heels clicked on the white stone. She walked with the absolute purpose of a woman who had waited three long years for this exact moment.

For three years, she had watched me shrink. She had seen me make excuses for Tyson's coldness. She had seen me swallow every insult Destiny threw my way, all because Tyson had Leland's jaw and Leland's smile. My mother had warned me once, years ago. When I didn't listen, she went quiet, watching from a distance, waiting for the illusion to break.

Now, she walked right past Tyson. Her shoulder brushed his arm, but she acted as if he were made of thin air.

She stopped beside me.

Without a word, my mother lowered herself to the floor. She didn't care about the hem of her navy gown dragging on the dusty stone. She dropped to both knees on the cold marble, right next to Biscuit and me.

She didn't speak. She didn't say *I told you so.* She didn't ask what happened.

She reached out and placed her warm, heavy palm flat against the center of my back.

Her touch anchored me. In the quiet weight of that hand, three years of silence, three years of pretending, three years of suffocating loneliness vanished.

The fog in my head cleared away. The numbness cracked wide open.

Underneath the pain, there was no sadness left. There was only ice. Cold, sharp, absolute clarity.

I looked down at Biscuit one last time. I tucked the yellow blanket around his chin, smoothing his fur.

*I'm done,* I thought. *No more substitutes.*

I drew one long, deep breath into my lungs.

Then, with my mother’s hand steady against my spine, I rose to my feet.