Chapter 3 No.3

The rehearsal dinner was at a chic restaurant in SoHo. The air buzzed with laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses.

Clare felt like she was watching a movie of someone else's life. Her hands, still lightly bandaged, rested in her lap. She wore long sleeves to hide them.

Karis was there.

She was seated next to Chase, of course. She wore a red dress that screamed for attention. Every time she laughed, she would touch Chase's arm, a casual, proprietary gesture that made Clare's stomach clench.

A family friend of Chase's, a woman with kind eyes, leaned toward Clare. "I was so sorry to hear about your accident, dear. How are your hands?"

Before Clare could answer, Karis spoke up, her voice laced with a performer's sympathy. "It was all my fault. I feel just awful. I keep telling Chase, I don't know how I'll ever forgive myself."

Chase put his arm around Karis's shoulders. "It wasn't your fault, Kar. It was an accident."

Clare opened her mouth to speak, to say that it wasn't just an accident, that protocols were ignored, that something felt wrong. "The product she used—"

"Clare, please," Chase cut her off, his voice low but firm. "We're not doing this here." He was talking to her like she was a child throwing a tantrum.

Karis looked at Clare, her eyes welling up with tears. "I just wonder... sometimes when a bride is under a lot of stress... they can self-sabotage, you know? Unconsciously. To get out of things."

The implication hung in the air, ugly and poisonous. That Clare had hurt herself. For attention. To sabotage the wedding.

Clare stared at her, speechless.

"Karis, stop," Chase said, but there was no heat in it. He turned to Clare, and his face was a mask of disappointment. "That's enough. Look what you're doing to her."

He was protecting Karis. He was shaming her. In front of all these people who were supposed to become her family.

He then did something that broke her.

He took his linen napkin and gently dabbed the corner of Karis's eye, wiping away a single, perfect tear. It was an intimate gesture. A gesture he used to reserve for her when she was sad.

The room fell away. The noise faded to a dull roar.

Clare stood up. Her chair scraped against the floor.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice a thin, brittle thing. "I'm not feeling well."

She walked away from the table, her back straight. She could feel every eye on her. She could feel Chase's glare.

She didn't look back.