Rejected by My Billionaire Husband (Billionaire Marriage in Crisis: Newport #8)

1. Bella

— ? —

Bella

On every girl’s big day, don’t let anyone fool you, the groom is the most important detail.

The Grandview Hotel Ballroom has never looked more beautiful than it does this afternoon.

The most important day of my life.

I stand at the entrance to the ceremony space, my heart hammering against my ribs with both joy and violence so pure it feels like champagne bubbles are hurriedly rising through my chest.

I’m wearing it. The dress. I hear my song playing.

Everyone is here to watch me say my vows.

Through the open double doors, I can see everything I’ve dreamed of for the past eighteen months, hell, if any girl is honest, for my entire life - the soaring thirty-foot ceilings draped in ivory silk, the three massive crystal chandeliers catching the afternoon light and scattering it into a thousand dancing prisms, the endless arrangements of white roses and blush peonies that perfume the air with their delicate sweetness.

What girl doesn’t dream of her big day? What girl doesn’t imagine every second of it?

Guests fill the gilt chairs arranged in perfect rows, their faces turned expectantly toward the altar where Marcus, the love of my life, will be waiting. There, with him, at the altar my future will begin.

“You look absolutely stunning,” Sarah Destin whispers beside me, adjusting the cathedral-length veil that cascades down my back like a waterfall of intricate French lace. Sarah’s eyes are already glistening with tears, her smile trembling at the edges.

The perfect maid of honor.

“I can’t believe this day is finally here.”

I squeeze my maid of honor’s hand, unable to speak past the emotion clogging my throat.

The custom Vera Wang gown has cost more than my first car - ivory silk that hugs my curves before flowing into a dramatic train, hand-embroidered with thousands of tiny pearls that catch the light with every breath.

I’ve never felt more beautiful in my life.

The string quartet positioned near the altar begins the opening notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and my father appears at my side, distinguished in his tuxedo, his eyes suspiciously bright.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Wayne Hayes asks, offering his arm.

I nod, not trusting my voice. Through the open doors, I can see the panoramic windows that line the far wall of the ballroom, offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The late afternoon sun paints everything in shades of gold and amber. It is perfect. Everything is perfect.

The wedding coordinator, a severe woman named Diane who’s orchestrated this day down to the minute, gives us the signal. The quartet swells into the familiar melody, and the guests rise as one, a rustling wave of silk and wool and anticipation.

I take my first step down the aisle.

The world narrows to this moment - the feel of my father’s steady arm beneath my hand, the whisper of silk against the white runner, the faces of friends and family blurring past as I move forward.

I can see Marcus’s groomsmen at the altar, handsome in their matching tuxedos.

I can see the officiant, Reverend Matthews, holding his leather-bound book.

I can see the elaborate floral arch that frames the space where Marcus and I will exchange our vows.

Everything is perfect. Everything is just as I’ve dreamed it would be for my whole life. The flowers, the people, the place, the music, my dress - they are all a part of my dream of what my big day would finally be like.

What girl doesn’t dream of her big day? What girl doesn’t imagine every second of it?

The only thing is, I never imagined that my betrothed would stand me up at the altar.

I see everyone. Maybe I should have stopped to look more closely at their distraught faces, the way they all look horrified, like someone died. The way they’re whispering. Everyone is here.

But what I can’t see is Marcus.

Everyone is here but the most important person.

I blink, certain that I’ve got to be missing something. Or seeing something wrong. Perhaps he’s standing at an angle I can’t quite make out from this distance. Perhaps the groomsmen are blocking my view of him.

Strange, usually I can lock eyes on him the second I walk into a room, like we are magnets to one another. But right now, no matter where my eyes dart to, I can’t find him anywhere.

Oh shit.

Suddenly it feels really hot in here. My skin turns blood red, and there is a roar in my head that drowns out the murmurs of the crowd.

I keep walking despite myself, despite my spinning head, my smile fixed in place, even as a small seed of confusion begins to sprout in my chest.

Three rows from the altar, I can see clearly now. The exact space where Marcus should be standing - where he’d stood during the rehearsal just last night, grinning at me with that boyish charm that first captured my heart three years ago - is empty.

He’s not here.

And then my mind starts repeating those words like a chant.

He’s not here. He’s not here. He’s not here.

The music continues its stately progression. Among all the many thoughts in my head, I think to myself, didn’t anyone think to tell them to cut the fucking music when the groom didn’t show?

But still the reality of it doesn’t seem to sink in. For some reason my feet keep moving, carrying me forward on momentum and muscle memory. I don’t know what else to do but what I planned to do this day.

But my mind is racing now, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Or rather, what I’m not seeing.

Where is he?

I reach the front row, where Marcus’s mother sits in a dove-gray dress, her face carefully composed but her eyes darting nervously back and forth toward the side entrance. Everyone looks uncomfortable. I realize detachedly that my head is whipping back and forth searching every person’s face for…

For answers, I realize. To the question strumming in my head. Where is he?

My own mother, resplendent in champagne silk, has her hand pressed to her mouth, her expression stricken. And she avoids my eyes in that way that she only does when something is not right.

And something is not right.

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

I turn to face the altar fully, and the truth hits me finally like a physical blow: Marcus really isn’t there. The spot where my fiancé should be standing is exactly what I thought it was at first glance. I’ve been scanning the place and people to find some hint that it isn’t true.

When it is. He’s simply… not here.

The music plays on, oblivious. The blaring noise is the one thing I wish I could change. I’ll probably remember it forever.

Pachelbel’s Canon in D, the song I’ve chosen because Marcus hummed it the first time he kissed me. It used to be our song. That’s why I chose it.

Now it feels like a mockery. The notes that seemed so romantic moments ago now sound discordant, wrong. It’s all wrong.

And I just stand there like an idiot.

Whispers begin to ripple through the crowd like wind through wheat. Now I’m at the point that I can hear them even over the music - confused murmurs, sharp intakes of breath, the rustle of people shifting in their seats and craning their necks to see what’s happening.

It’s like cars driving past a huge wreck, looking and just thanking God it was someone else and not them. And I’m the huge wreck everyone is stopping to stare at.

“Where is he?” someone whispers, not quite quietly enough.

“Is this part of the ceremony?”

“Oh my God, is he actually-”

The music cuts off mid-phrase. Finally. I swear relief flushes through me despite the unnerving panic.

The silence that follows is deafening. The whole room is holding its collective breath, waiting for an explanation that I don’t have. The quartet members look at each other uncertainly, their bows frozen above their strings.

I stand at the altar in my ten-thousand-dollar dress, my veil cascading behind me, my bouquet of white roses trembling in my hands. I can feel every eye in the room on me, can sense the pity already beginning to bloom on their faces.

This can’t be happening. This is a mistake. Marcus is probably just running late, or maybe he’s gotten sick, or-

He couldn’t have stood me up at the altar. My worst fear couldn’t possibly be playing out right before my eyes. It feels unreal.

“Bella.” Sarah appears at my elbow, her voice low and urgent.

Another person whose facial expression I should have paid more attention to when I was walking down the aisle like a fool. Sarah. Her face says it all now.

Amee Richardson, my other bridesmaid, flanks my other side. Both women look stricken, their carefully applied makeup unable to hide their emotion.

They squish me between them, trying to shield me, trying to hide me.

“Bella, honey, let’s go somewhere private,” Sarah insists quietly. “Let’s-”

“No.” My voice comes out stronger than I feel. I turn to Reverend Matthews, who looks as confused as everyone else. “Where is he? Did he call? Did something happen?”

The reverend opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I… I don’t know, my dear. He was here an hour ago. He said he needed to make a phone call and stepped out. I assumed he’d be right back.”

An hour ago. I’ve heard all I need to hear. Marcus left an hour ago and hasn’t come back.

And by the looks of it, he isn’t going to come back.

The whispers are growing louder now, less discreet. They rise up around me like a tidal wave on all sides. I can hear fragments of conversation floating up from the assembled guests:

“-can’t believe he would-”

“-poor thing, she must be-”

“-always thought there was something off about-”

The pity in their voices is worse than anything else. I feel it washing over me in waves, drowning me, suffocating me. My heart plummets, you know that sinking feeling you get when someone is about to tell you something you don’t want to hear.

I can’t breathe. The boned bodice of my dress suddenly feels like a cage, the weight of the veil like chains. Shackles because now I’m a prisoner to this. This is all I’ll ever be from this day forth.

The woman that was left at the altar.