Tenth Time Left at Altar

The chapel was adorned with white roses and crystal chandeliers, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows casting rainbow patterns across my designer gown. I stood before three hundred guests, my heart racing with anticipation as the string quartet played our carefully selected piece. This was it—our tenth attempt at marriage, and surely, nothing could go wrong this time.

I smoothed the silk of my Vera Wang gown, the fabric cool against my trembling fingers. The weight of my grandmother's diamond necklace felt reassuring against my collarbone. Ten times we had planned this day. Ten times I had believed in forever.

"You look beautiful," my mother whispered beside me, squeezing my hand. "This time will be different."

I nodded, forcing a smile. "It has to be."

Denver stood tall at the altar, his dark suit impeccable, his eyes meeting mine with what I thought was unwavering devotion. Just hours ago, he had promised this would be the day we finally became husband and wife.

"I won't let anything ruin this," he had whispered against my hair. "Nothing will come between us again."

I took a step forward, ready to begin my walk down the aisle when the heavy oak doors of the chapel burst open with such force that several guests gasped.

"Denver!" A woman's voice, high and desperate, cut through the music like a knife. "Denver, help me!"

My blood turned to ice as Samara Silva stumbled down the aisle, her face contorted in what appeared to be agony. Her mascara streaked down her cheeks, her breathing ragged and theatrical.

"I can't—I can't breathe," she sobbed, clutching at her chest. "The walls are closing in! I need you!"

The music screeched to a halt. Two hundred pairs of eyes swung from me to Samara, then to Denver.

"Denver," I whispered, reaching for his arm. "What is she doing here?"

But Denver was already moving toward her, his face transformed by concern. "Samara! What's happening?"

"She's having a panic attack," someone called out. "She needs help!"

"I'll take care of her," Denver announced, not even glancing back at me as he wrapped an arm around Samara's waist. "The wedding will have to wait."

"What?" The word escaped me in a broken whisper. "Denver, please—"

But he was already guiding Samara toward the exit, murmuring reassurances into her ear. I stood frozen in my wedding gown, the bouquet of white roses trembling in my grip.

"Denver!" I called out, my voice cracking. "Don't leave me here—not again!"

He paused at the doorway, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't decipher. "I'm sorry, Alexandra. She needs me."

Then they were gone, leaving me alone before hundreds of guests whose whispers grew louder by the second.

"Poor thing," an elderly woman muttered to her companion. "Ten times they've tried to marry, and he always runs off with that other girl."

I felt the weight of their stares, their pity, their judgment.

I took a step toward the door. "I need to go after them."

A hand caught my arm—Marcus, Denver's business associate and groomsman. "You need to stay here and handle the guests," he hissed, his fingers digging painfully into my skin.

"Let go of me," I said, trying to pull away. "I need to see what's happening."

"Stop being so selfish," he snapped, his face inches from mine. "Do you have any idea what Samara's going through? She needs Denver right now!"

Before I could respond, his palm connected with my cheek in a sharp slap that sent me stumbling backward. The force of it knocked my veil askew, tears springing to my eyes.

"Marcus!" My mother gasped from somewhere behind me.

But I barely heard her. All I could see was the empty doorway where Denver had disappeared with Samara.

Hours later, I found myself alone at the venue as rain began to fall. The staff had cleared away the flowers and champagne glasses, the guests had departed with their whispers and sideways glances. My phone remained silent—no calls from Denver explaining where he was, what was happening, when he would return.

I stepped outside into the gathering storm, still wearing my wedding gown. The silk quickly soaked through, clinging to my skin as thunder rumbled overhead.

"Let him go," I whispered to myself, tears mixing with raindrops on my face. "Just let him go."

I wandered aimlessly through the park adjacent to the venue, my mind numb, my body moving of its own accord. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the empty path before me.

"Denver," I called out, my voice lost in the howling wind. "Denver, please come back!"

But there was no answer—only the relentless rhythm of rain and thunder.

My legs finally gave way beneath me in a secluded corner of the park. I collapsed onto the wet grass, my white gown now stained with mud and tears. The darkness at the edges of my vision crept inward as another bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.

As consciousness slipped away, I thought I heard voices calling for help, felt hands lifting me from the cold ground.

"Miss? Can you hear me? We're taking you to the hospital."

But I couldn't respond. The world faded to black as I surrendered to the storm's embrace.