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?"