Amelia POV:

I straightened my spine and turned to leave. I had to ask him, face to face, if this was all some sick, twisted nightmare.

A hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back. I spun around to see my adoptive father, Lanny Baldwin. His face was red with fury, but the anger wasn't for Devon.

It was for me.

"Where do you think you're going? Haven't you embarrassed us enough for one day?" he hissed, his voice a low growl.

My adoptive mother, Glenda, came up behind him, her eyes raking over me with disgust, as if I were a damaged product. "Amelia, I can't believe you. How could you not keep a man?"

I stared at them, almost in disbelief that my own family was standing completely on his side. "It wasn't my fault! It was Devon, he left for Kaelyn—"

My sister Mabel's sharp laugh cut me off. "Oh, please, Amelia," she said, crossing her arms, her face a mask of smug satisfaction. "It takes two to tango. You must have done something to make him run."

Glenda pressed a handkerchief to her forehead with an affected air, twisting it into a knot in her hands. "The Baldwin name is ruined. How am I supposed to show my face at the club now?"

I stood there, the chill starting from the thin heels of my high heels and crawling up my spine, spreading to my limbs. Not a word of comfort. Not a trace of concern. Just blame. Blame, surging in like a tide.

Lanny lowered his voice, his anger laced with whiskey. "I raised you for twenty years, fed you, clothed you—you think I was doing charity?"

At that point, I was completely done with this family. "You were investing," I finished for him, my voice so calm it made him pause. "Now the investment failed, so you're pulling out. Fine."

He pulled a checkbook from his inner pocket, scribbled a number, tore it off, and slapped it into my hand. "Take this and get lost. Don't come back to us."

I glanced at the string of zeros. Enough to last a lifetime for an ordinary person. A neat termination letter.

I didn't put the check away. Right in front of everyone, I folded it in half, then again, and tossed it into the ice bucket of the champagne cart that was being wheeled away. The paper soaked through with bubbly water, the ink blurring, the numbers vanishing.

Lanny's pupils contracted.

"Your money," I said, looking him in the eye, each word distinct, "keep it for your next investment. I don't need it."

Glenda was shaking with rage, pulling Mabel back as if I were the plague. "Let's go, Mabel, don't stand near her—if the photographers catch us together, they'll write about all of us."

Mabel, being dragged along, looked back and mouthed something at me, her lips curling with malice. "Loser." I watched her, and moved my own lips, silently, but enough for her to read. "Just wait and see." The smile on her face froze for half a second before her mother yanked her away.

Their three backs disappeared into the parking garage, not a single glance back. Like tossing out trash.

My heart, already cracked, shattered completely. If Devon's departure was a betrayal, this was an execution.

I stood alone at the hotel entrance, in my expensive wedding dress. An orphan to the entire world.

A security guard watched me with pity but kept his distance. People in passing cars pointed.

The cold wind hit my bare shoulders, raising goosebumps. I had never felt so cold, but I straightened my spine, like a nail hammered into the ground.

I looked up at the gray New York sky, and the tears I'd been holding back finally broke free, carving black mascara tracks down my cheeks.

I wiped them away hard—this would be the last time I ever cried for these people. A wild, desperate thought began to spark in my mind. I couldn't let this be the end.

I wouldn't let anyone see me crumble.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to scan my surroundings, searching for an escape, any escape.

My eyes moved past the garden fountain and settled on a terrace on the other side of the hotel. There was another wedding happening there, but the atmosphere was just as strange and somber as my own.

Guests were leaving in small, awkward groups, their faces a mixture of embarrassment and sympathy.

And then my gaze locked onto a single figure.

In the shadows of the terrace, a man sat alone in a wheelchair. His back was to me, a portrait of profound solitude.

He was like me. Another groom, left behind.

An absurd, all-or-nothing plan ignited in my brain.

Amelia POV:

I lifted the hem of my dress and started walking. Not to chase anyone, but toward a new, insane possibility. I moved through the rose garden, toward the other wing of the hotel.

As I got closer to the terrace, I could hear the hushed conversations of the departing guests.

"Such a shame. Can you believe Julianne Parker backed out at the last minute?" a woman in a Chanel suit murmured to her friend.

"You didn't hear? Hartwell Madden... the Hartwell Madden... he's finished. After that collision on the ice, his legs are useless. He'll never walk again."

Hartwell Madden. The name struck me like a physical blow. Of course I knew that name. He was a legend in the hockey world. A god on ice. An icon of an era.

I remembered the news reports. The devastating on-ice collision that had ended his career. They called it one of the darkest days in NHL history.

I ducked behind a marble statue, listening, my heart starting to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

"I guess Julianne couldn't stomach marrying a cripple," the first woman said, her voice dripping with casual cruelty. "She's a model, after all. Her future is in the spotlight."

The words were sharp and ugly, full of the world's casual disdain for anyone perceived as broken.

I felt a pang of bitter recognition. Minutes ago, I was also the one being discussed in those same pitying, scornful tones.

I peeked out from behind the statue, my eyes finding the man in the wheelchair again. He sat perfectly still, a monument to abandonment.

He wasn't crying or raging. He was just silent.

We were two jokes, played by a cruel fate on the same day, in the same place. Thrown away by the people who were supposed to love us most.

I stopped hesitating. I wouldn't stand here and drown in the world's pity. I had to fight back.

My plan was crazy. The odds of it working were close to zero.

But what did a bride, humiliated and disowned, have left to lose?

I smoothed my wind-tousled hair, took a deep, steadying breath, and straightened my back.

The satin of my dress whispered against the stone path as I walked, a funereal march toward an unknown fate.

A few lingering guests stared, their expressions baffled, as they watched one bride in a white gown approach the wreckage of another's wedding.

I ignored them. My focus was singular.

I walked up the steps to the terrace, my heels making a sharp, determined sound on the wooden planks.

The man in the wheelchair heard me. He turned his head slowly.

Our eyes met.

He had ice-blue pupils, the color of a freshly cleaned rink—cold, deep, and guarded.

He saw my wedding dress, and one eyebrow arched slightly. There was no surprise on his face, just a sort of expectation.

I walked until the voluminous skirt of my dress pooled around the front of his wheelchair.

I could smell the faint scent of expensive cologne, mixed with something sterile, like antiseptic.

My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, threatening to leap out of my throat.

"Mr. Hartwell Madden," I began, my voice steadier than I felt. "My fiancé just left me at the altar."

I paused, letting the words hang in the air between us.

"And it appears your fiancée has done the same. We've both been made into public jokes."

I took another breath, forcing out the words that sounded insane even to my own ears.

"So, I have a proposal. Will you marry me?"