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I HEAR WEDDING BELLS AND VOICEMAILS

Sabrina

This wasn’t the ceremony we’d rehearsed, but sometimes a bride has to improvise.

I gather the billowing tulle of my dress so it won’t slow my hustle toward the Grand Ballroom of The Luxe Hotel in Lucky Falls. I only stop at the end of the hall to swallow my bridal rage and fasten on a smile while I’m still out of sight.

A glance around the corner shows the poised and polished wedding planner outside the ballroom door with her headset and tablet, directing the preparations like air traffic control.

Tessa is such a consummate professional that I almost feel bad for enlisting her unwitting help in this dastardly measure I’m about to take.

Almost.

Because sometimes revenge is best cooked up in the heat of the moment.

“Psst, Tessa,” I whisper around the corner .

She snaps her blue gaze my way and blinks in surprise. Still, her blonde, news-anchor bob barely moves, and she adjusts quickly, abandoning her post to join me in the more private hallway.

“Sabrina, is everything okay?” she asks quietly. “You’re supposed to be waiting in the?—”

“The bridal suite. I know.” I give my best I can’t wait to get hitched face.

“But I have a surprise for Chad. I didn’t think I’d be able to find it, but I tracked it down at the last minute.

” I point to her iPad. “Can you cue up the MP3 I just sent you? It’s the first voicemail Chad ever left me when he asked me out six years ago.

And I know it would make him so, so happy to hear it today,” I say, setting a hand on my heart and leaning in on the hearts and flowers.

“That’s sweet. But are you sure you want to change things up now?”

“Positive.” I don’t want the first arrivals for the wedding that my mother planned—from the cloying all-white flower motif to the interchangeable cast of attendees plucked from the country club brochure—to spot the bride in the tiara and ball gown.

I don’t want any witnesses. “But don’t tell a soul. It’s a surprise.”

Please don’t ask any questions. Please don’t play the file first.

If she does, I have a backup plan. I’ll keep my phone tucked inside my white lace bra, ready, if necessary, to hit play on the, well, let’s call it the new bridal march.

Tessa scans her iPad, spots my email, and nods. “Here it is. There’s not much time for changes.” Her crisp tone worries me for a moment, but then she adds, “But this is so nostalgic, delightfully so. How can I resist?”

“That’s us.” Romantic nostalgia is the theme my mother chose for the wine country wedding with its throwback vibe and my old-fashioned dress. And since Mom’s nostalgia is paying Tessa’s bills …

“I’ll have it cued up and ready to go,” she says.

“Right after Madison reaches the front.” Somehow, I say the maid of honor’s name without the sharp edge of anger cutting through my carefully composed calm. “And as soon as I take the first step down the aisle.”

Timing is everything.

“Got it.” Tessa gamely rolls with the change, and…fine, I do feel bad that she’ll be collateral damage.

But then I mentally replay the misdirected voice message I received about an hour ago. The one that sent me through the five stages of romance grief in sixty minutes. I’ve reached a sixth stage now—getting even.

“You’re the best. I’ll leave you a five-star review.” I scurry away, holding onto my tiara to keep it in place. It’s the only thing I actually picked for this wedding, and I love it in all its sparkly outlandishness.

Ten minutes later, I stand at the French doors to the grand ballroom. My heart gallops, but my nerves are steel, conditioned by years of cutthroat ice-skating competitions.

My friends in attendance don’t know the plan either. It’s easier to keep it a surprise if I only trust myself with the scheme.

I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and smile without showing any teeth. I’m next to my father, ready to walk down the aisle and tell the world how I really feel about Chad Huntington.

The groom waits under a crystal chandelier in front of two hundred and fifty guests, with his perfectly coiffed blond hair, his perfectly fitting tux, his perfectly ordained life with this perfect wedding to the daughter of his father’s business partner—a merger of a marriage here in the same town where my dad’s business began.

The maid of dubious honor arrives in front of the rows of chairs, and the music on the ballroom’s sound system fades out, ready for “Pachelbel’s Canon” to start. Instead, the crackle of a voicemail booms.

“Hey, hey, Furby.” Chad’s singsong coo addresses the orange kitten I’ve been fostering for a San Francisco rescue. “Guess what today is?”

I’d been pulling on my sheer, white stockings when I first heard the message.

Earlier, Chad had called to make sure my uncle Jay knew to go to the grand ballroom, not the band ballroom.

I hadn’t picked up in time, and the call went to voicemail.

Chad didn’t realize he hadn’t hung up properly before he started serenading the three-pound orange cutie about our wedding.

I’d let the message play as I slipped on one satin shoe because how adorable was that? We’d laugh about it later.

Well, one of us would.

“Guess who’s coming over?” Over the speakers, Chad croons another line of the kitten song.

“What the hell is going on?” my father whispers, low in my ear.

I give Dad one of the polished smiles I’ve been throwing to spectators for years. The one he expects from me. “Just a sweet little something for my groom.”

At the front of the ballroom, Chad cocks his head, his gelled hair unmoving, his eyes wary as I glide up the aisle.

Please, universe, let me pull this off like a triple lutz in competition.

The song plays on. “She’ll be here in a few. Because Madison has something to do. She’s bringing me a secret wedding gift. The one that’ll give my spirits a lift.”

My father’s jaw ticks. “Sabrina Snow,” he hisses to me. Me! He doesn’t yell it to Chad, like he should.

But even as the familiar click of Tessa’s shoes sound behind me—she’s probably rushing somewhere at the speed of sound to hit end on the song that isn’t romantically nostalgic at all—we’ve already reached the good stuff. The prestige, as they call it in a magic show.

Tessa must succeed since Chad’s voice stops carrying over the sound system.

But a good performer doesn’t let a thing get her down.

I stop halfway up the aisle, letting the weight of Chad’s words so far settle over the entire ballroom full of guests with their jaws agape. My father stiffens beside me, his grip tightening on my arm. All eyes are on me now.

I reach into my bra, tugging out my phone like the plot twist of the century.

The crowd gasps as I hit play, letting all the guests take in the grand finale of the groom’s impromptu kitty serenade.

“She’s gonna come through, with that BJ courage I need to say…

I do.” There’s a chuckle, then Chad speaks the last words.

“And then I’ll get my bonus in six months. How smart am I, kitty boy?”

Furby meows angrily, and I swear in feline he’s saying, You’re a dumbass. The red light’s on, recording this session .

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce, loud and clear, “I’d like to thank Chad Huntington for sharing his musical talents with all of us today. I hope you enjoy the seasonal salad and seared halibut. I hear it pairs great with a cheater’s wedding that didn’t happen.”

With that, I turn on my heel and march right out the French doors, leaving two hundred and fifty guests, my whole family, a backstabbing maid of honor, and a cheating groom and his bonus in the dust.

With tears of rage and hurt stinging at the back of my eyes, I’m halfway to the nearest exit, ready to bolt to who knows where, when my father catches up to me.

My heart is galloping, but he’s barely even breathing hard as he issues an edict in his commanding tone: “Sabrina Snow. Do not even think about leaving.”

He says it like I’m a thief trying to slip out of one of his fancy ski stores wearing the high-end gear with the tags still on.

With my cartoonish dress suddenly feeling far too constricting, I turn to him and lift my chin. “It’s a little hard for me to stay,” I say, hating that my voice is full of potholes. My father won’t want to hear any of my emotions. He’s never been interested in them.

With a dismissive grunt, he reaches into the inside pocket of his tuxedo and hands me a tissue, like problem solved . “Straighten up and let’s get back in there. Time to apologize.”

My head spins. My world tilts on its axis.

Did he really just say that? “I’m supposed to apologize for my groom cheating on me an hour before the wedding?

With the maid of honor, no less? She’s not even a friend of mine!

Madison’s your marketing manager—and you asked me to have her as the maid of honor. ”

“She’s the VP,” he says, correcting me, since that matters. But to him it does—everything must be precise. “And yes, that’s what you should do, because that ridiculous stunt you pulled was unacceptable.”

“Are you ill, dear?” my mother asks as she arrives—trim, sleek, and impossibly stylish in her off-white sheath dress.

Of course, she would wear the same color as the bride.

“It’s not even a taboo anymore,” she told me when she showed me the dress her personal stylist had selected for her because it matched her skin tone.

“It’s totally acceptable for the mother of the bride to wear cream. ”

Sure, Mom.

I swallow another rebel sob. I can’t believe they’re siding with him. Him—the guy I’ve been faithful to since college. The guy my dad set me up with. The guy I’ve been on again and off again with for six years. But I’ve always been faithful to him, even when we were off.

That guy is walking toward me now, shaking his head, tutting like I’m a naughty child.

“Sabrina, honey pie, what’s come over you?” Chad asks with so much faux concern I’m pretty sure I’m living in a multiverse.