Shattered (Empire of Hearts #3)

Delia

I’m getting married today.

The bridal suite smelled of roses and promises not yet kept, and I stood in front of the mirror while Sarah worked on my veil, her hands quick and sure, talking about how Jake would probably cry when he saw me.

I tried to believe her.

My phone sat on the vanity, screen dark and silent.

No good morning text. No 'I can't wait to see you.' Nothing.

Wedding jitters, I told myself. Men got nervous about these things, right? Big commitment, three hundred guests, the weight of forever pressing down. It made sense.

Except Jake had never been nervous about us before.

He'd been nervous about work—investors, competitors, board decisions. But us? He’d always been confident about us. Even during the times when we’d been off and on, he was always frustratingly confident that we’d end up together even when I wasn’t.

“Delia, you’re doing that thing again.” Sarah caught my eye in the mirror, her expression shifting from wedding coordinator mode to best friend intervention. “Stop spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“Your eye’s twitching.”

I pressed my fingers against it. “It’s not.”

“You look perfect.” She smoothed the veil one more time, the diamond on her left hand catching the light. “Gorgeous. Stunning. Jake won't know what hit him.”

The way she said his name—just a fraction too careful, like she was handling something that might break—made my stomach drop.

“You think he will, right?” My voice was a nervous breath.

“Of course.” She squeezed my shoulders, but something in her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

That wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement. Sarah had been quietly skeptical about Jake from the start—that particular best friend wariness when they think you could do better. She’d warmed up eventually. Mostly.

I tried to smile back. It felt like I was wearing someone else’s face.

The door opened and my mother walked in, elegant in emerald green, her hair swept up in a style that took two hours and made her look ten years younger. She stopped when she saw me, one hand going to her chest, and for a moment her face was completely clear. Completely her.

“Oh, sweetheart." Her voice caught. "You look perfect.”

I felt something break loose in my chest. “Mom.”

She crossed the room and took my face in her hands, those same hands that had braided my hair and wiped my tears and taught me how to mix paint until the colors sang. Her hands trembled—that constant tremor she tried to hide but couldn't.

“Your father would have loved this,” she said, and I could see her eyes getting bright. “He would have been so proud. My beautiful girl.”

I memorized her face—the clear, bright intelligence in her eyes, the way she really saw me, really knew me.

The diagnosis had come five years ago, though she'd likely been sick for six years before anyone noticed.

Six years of small moments slipping away before anyone noticed.

Before we understood why she kept asking the same questions, why she seemed confused about things that used to be second nature.

Good days were rare now. The bad days were winning, a tide I couldn't turn back.

I didn’t know how many more clear days I’d get with her. How many more moments where she looked at me and knew exactly who I was so I treasured moments like this.

“He would have walked you down the aisle,” she continued, adjusting my veil with shaky fingers. “He would have cried. You know how he was about you. His little artist.”

“I know.” My voice came out thick and I had to swallow hard to keep the tears from starting. Not now. I couldn’t cry now. My makeup was perfect and the ceremony was starting in five minutes and I needed to hold it together.

She pulled back, studying me with that artist’s eye that had taught me to see color and light and shadow.

“You’re sure about this?” she asked suddenly. “About Jake?”

The question landed wrong, hit something tender I’d been trying to ignore all morning.

“Mom—”

“Because you don't have to do anything you're not sure about. Not for anyone." Her hands tightened on my arms. "You understand?"

“I'm sure." I paused. "I love him."

That part was true. I did love him. Had loved him through five years of off-and-on, through work obsessions and commitment fears and his tendency to vanish into the company when things got too real.

We'd broken up twice. Once because he couldn't balance a relationship with building his startup. Once because his parents' divorce convinced him marriage destroyed everything it touched.

But we'd worked through it—the storms, the doubts, the moments when I'd been certain he'd never choose me over his career. We’d fought and talked and fought some more until we’d landed here—at this wedding, this moment, this future we’d built together.

It hadn’t been perfect. But we’d made it work. We’d chosen each other despite everything.

That was what mattered, right? That we’d gotten here at all?

“Okay.” Mom kissed my forehead, and I breathed in her perfume—the same one she’d worn my entire life. “Then let’s get you married.”

Sarah handed me my bouquet—white peonies and eucalyptus, simple and elegant because I’d never been the type who wanted elaborate arrangements. My hands felt numb holding it, like they belonged to someone else.

The coordinator appeared in the doorway, headset on, clipboard clutched like a weapon. “Five minutes. Everyone ready?”

I nodded. We proceeded toward the church entrance—me, Sarah, my mother, two bridesmaids who were my friends from college, already crying happy tears. Through the closed doors, music swelled—some string quartet version of a song Jake said reminded him of the night we met.

I stood in the vestibule, listening to three hundred people settling into their seats, whispering and laughing and waiting to watch me marry the man I loved.

My hands were slick against the stems. My heart was beating too fast. Just nerves, I told myself.

Normal anxiety before walking down an aisle in front of everyone I'd ever known.

But something felt wrong. Had felt wrong all morning. I'd kept pushing it down, telling myself it was just wedding day jitters.

My phone buzzed in Sarah’s clutch.

"Probably just good luck texts,” Sarah said, already reaching for it.

Her face did something complicated—surprise, concern, then that careful mask people wear when delivering bad news.

My stomach dropped. “What?”

“Nothing. Just—” She fumbled, shoving the phone back into the clutch.

“Sarah.”

“Delia, let’s just—”

The officiant appeared in the vestibule, flustered, making a beeline for my brother Daniel. They spoke in urgent whispers, the officiant’s hands moving in agitated gestures, Daniel’s face doing that thing where it went completely serious.

I knew that expression. The one he wore when he was in doctor-mode, delivering devastating news to parents in the ICU.

“Daniel?” I called out, my voice small with anxiety.

He turned, and I saw him make a decision. He was deciding what to tell me and what to hold back for just a few more seconds.

My phone buzzed again. And again.

“Sarah, give me my phone.”

“Delia, maybe we should—”

“Now.”

She handed it over with shaking hands.

Two messages. Both from Jake.

Jake

I can’t do this. I’m sorry.

And then, seconds later.

Jake

Jennifer says she’s pregnant.

The vestibule went silent. Or maybe I just stopped hearing—couldn't tell which.

Jennifer. His ex-girlfriend from college. The one he’d sworn was ancient history, a mistake from when he was young and stupid and didn’t know what he wanted. The one he’d promised me was completely out of his life.

Pregnant.

I read it again. Again. The words stayed the same, refused to make sense.

My brain tried to process the logistics. Jake had been with Jennifer. Recently enough that she was pregnant. He’d been sleeping with her while planning our wedding. While picking out songs and tasting cakes and promising me forever.

And now he was telling me via text message. Two texts. Like our entire relationship, our entire future, could be summarized in two sentences sent from wherever he was hiding.

Not even the courage to face me. Not even the decency to call.

“Delia.” Daniel was suddenly beside me, his hand on my elbow. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Where is he?” My voice didn’t sound like mine. It was too high, too thin, like it might shatter. “Where’s Jake?”

“He’s not here.” Daniel’s voice was worried, careful. The doctor voice. “He’s not coming.”

The doors to the sanctuary were still closed. Three hundred people on the other side, waiting.

They didn’t know yet. Didn’t know that the groom had abandoned the bride before she even made it down the aisle.

That I was standing here in my dress reading texts that were demolishing my entire life.

“I need to—” I couldn't finish. My mother was asking questions, confused, her earlier clarity already slipping. Why weren’t we going in? Was it time? Where was Jake?

“We need to go,” Daniel said firmly to Sarah. “Help me.”

They guided me away from the doors, away from music still playing as though nothing had changed, back toward the bridal suite. My legs moved but I couldn't feel them. Just expanding numbness starting in my chest, spreading outward.

Someone—Daniel—was explaining something to my mother in a low voice. I couldn't hear over the rushing in my head.

In the bridal suite, Sarah closed the door. The sounds from the church faded to a muffled hum.

I sat on the floor. Standing had become impossible. The dress pooled around me—white silk, lace, delicate beading that had cost too much and now meant nothing. Three months finding this dress. Appointments, fittings, alterations to make it perfect.

For nothing.

Jake had left.

Jake had left me before our wedding for his ex-girlfriend. Because she was pregnant.

I tried to make sense of it. My brain kept hitting the same wall. This was supposed to be our day. The day we’d fought for, worked toward, survived for. The day that proved all the struggles and breakups and reconciliations had been worth it.

He'd promised. Six months ago at our favorite restaurant, he'd promised he was done running. Done letting fear control him. Done choosing everything else over us. He’d said I was it for him. His person. His future.

I’d believed him.

God, I’d believed him.

He'd failed me before. Canceled our anniversary dinner for a board meeting. Spent our vacation on his laptop closing deals. Each time I'd forgiven him. He always apologized; always promised to do better.

But this was our wedding. The one thing he couldn't fail me on.

And he failed me anyway.

Worse than failed. He destroyed me.

Sarah knelt beside me, mascara running in black streaks, hands hovering like she wanted to touch me but didn't know where. “I’m so sorry. Delia, I’m so, so sorry.”

I couldn't speak. The tears wouldn't come. My body had decided crying was too small for this kind of devastation.

Everyone would know. They'd talk. Poor Delia Santoro, left at her own wedding. Poor Delia, who wasn't enough to keep him. Who couldn't compete with an ex-girlfriend's pregnancy.

I pressed my hands against my face, trying to hold myself together. Everything inside me was fracturing.

The door opened.

“Delia.”

Just my name. Nothing else. That voice I’d know anywhere—low and steady and infuriatingly calm.

Axel Irving stood in the doorway, tall and composed in an expensive suit, his expression tight with worry.

My brother's best friend. The boy my parents took in when his own died. I hadn't seen him in years—nearly five. He only came home for the holidays if we were lucky.

Sarah looked from me to Axel. “I’ll go check what’s happening.” She squeezed my shoulder, then was gone, leaving me alone with him.

Axel was the last person I wanted to see me like this.

“Leave,” I managed.

He didn't leave. Stepped inside, closed the door. Then sat on the floor beside me in his sharp gray suit and said nothing.

“I told you to leave.”

“I know.”

“So leave.”

“No,” he said. “I’m staying here to help you. What do you need?”

I wanted to scream at him, demand he take his quiet competence and steady presence somewhere else. I couldn't handle being witnessed like this. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But he just sat there. Solid, still, unbothered by my misery.

“What I need,” I said when I could finally form words again, “is to not be here. To not be living this.”

“You won’t be here forever.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Eventually this becomes a story you tell at dinner parties. To make people uncomfortable.”

The comment was so unexpected, so wrong for the moment, that I almost laughed. The sound came out broken and sharp.

“That’s messed up.”

“Yes.”

Time passed—minutes or hours, I couldn’t tell. People came and went. Sarah returned with water I didn't drink, her phone buzzing with texts from her husband Hector.

My mother appeared, asked if we were married now, if she'd missed it. Daniel gently redirected her away.

Through it all, Axel stayed.

We sat in silence while the wedding unraveled outside. Eventually the shaking stopped. My hands steadied. The white noise in my head cleared enough for practical thoughts—getting out of this dress, going home, figuring out how to exist in a world where I'd been left at my own wedding.

Axel stood first, offered me his hand. I ignored it, pushed myself up. My legs were unsteady but functional. He kept on looking at the door, as if waiting for a signal.

Then he finally said, “Wait here.” And then he left the room.

When most of the guests were gone and it was safe to leave, Sarah and Daniel helped me get out. I had to hand it to them, though, even with their dating history from years ago, they were both still there for me. Always.

They led me out into a car. I didn’t care whose it was, I just wanted to get out of here.

When I climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door, I looked at the driver and saw that it was Axel.

I didn’t have the energy to argue or to question why he was driving me home.

I just leaned by head back, and closed my eyes.

We didn't speak during the drive. He kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, giving me silence to pull myself together.

At my building, he put the car in park. Left the engine running.

“Do you need help upstairs?” he asked.

“I’m not an invalid. Just abandoned.”

His expression didn’t change. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

I got out of the car, still in my wedding dress. I hadn't thought to bring other clothes. Naturally. Because “pack an emergency outfit for when you get left at the altar” wasn’t exactly on my bridal to-do list.

The doorman's eyes went wide. He had the good sense not to comment.

In my apartment, I went straight to the window and looked down. Axel’s car was still there, waiting.

I hated him a little for witnessing my lowest moment.

For being there when Jake wasn’t.