I stood near the back of the church, a bouquet of ivory silk roses clutched in my hands. The officiant clapped his hands, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. "Alright, from the top. Bridesmaids and groomsmen—pair up!"

Dean was at the front, wearing a smile that was just a bit too wide. He kept glancing in my direction, a subtle, unwelcome reminder of his previous behavior. His best man, Henry, stood beside him like an obedient shadow.

And there, sitting in the front pew next to my father, was Roman. He wasn't part of the wedding party, but in his dark, tailored suit, he looked like he belonged there more than anyone else. He looked like the main event.

He met my eye and gave a small, encouraging nod. I smiled back, focusing on my footing as the music began. The rehearsal was a blur of clicking heels and the scent of lemon oil on polished pews.

"Graceful, everyone! It’s a walk, not a race," the officiant joked.

When I reached the front, I stole another look at Roman. He was watching me with an intensity that made me feel like he was memorizing every movement. He mouthed, 'You look beautiful,' and pulled out his phone to snap a picture. I blushed, feeling like a teenager under his gaze.

The rehearsal blurred into a background noise of instructions and laughter. All that mattered was the man in the front row. His eyes followed me with a possessive assessment that made my skin hum. I only snapped out of the trance when Chloe took her place at the altar.

She was dressed in a flowing white sundress, holding a simple cluster of roses. Dean waited for her, his posture a mix of nerves and anticipation. It was surreal to be her maid of honor after she’d declared me her enemy, but I stood my ground.

After the mock exchange of rings, the atmosphere shifted. The formality of the church gave way to the exclusive air of the rehearsal dinner.

The restaurant was a masterclass in understated wealth—gleaming surfaces, soft jazz, and white linen that felt like silk. Waiters in black waistcoats glided through the room with trays of champagne. We sat down to a multi-course meal, the air heavy with the scent of seared steak and fragrant herbs.

Between courses, Henry, the best man, rose to deliver his speech. I remembered him from Dean’s college days—a man who lived in Dean’s shadow. He held his glass aloft, a mischievous glint in his eye that made Dean look visibly tense.

"Well," Henry began, his voice drawing the attention of every guest. "I've known Dean a long time. And in that time, I’ve seen him make some... interesting choices."

A few polite chuckles rippled through the room. Roman’s jaw locked. He seemed to sense the shift in the air before anyone else did.

"But the thing about Dean," Henry continued, "is that he’s a man who likes to... explore his options before settling down. He didn't just find the love of his life out of the blue; he took the scenic route."

The room went quiet. I felt a chill settle in my marrow.

Henry’s eyes flicked to me for a split second. "And who could blame him? Savannah is a gorgeous woman—smart, feisty, incredible. But sometimes, you’ve got to take a few test drives before you find the car you really want to buy, right?"

The guests murmured, the confusion turning into awkward realization. A groomsman tried to whisper in Henry’s ear to get him to sit down, but Henry was enjoying the spotlight too much.

"I'll keep it short," Henry said, raising his glass higher. "Dean’s a lucky guy. Not many men can say they dated two sisters and still got invited to the wedding. So, here’s to Dean—for finally choosing the right sister."

The silence that followed was brutal. Dean’s posture was stiff as a board. Roman looked like he was one second away from crossing the room and ending the night in a fight; his fists were white-knuckled.

Chloe, however, was beaming. She raised her hand, flashing her diamond ring like a trophy as her friends gushed and cameras flashed. Around us, the whispers began—the kind of quiet, judging murmurs that you feel on your skin.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe. But across the table, Roman’s eyes were locked on mine, dark and unreadable, as if he were documenting every ounce of my pain to settle the score later.

Henry, oblivious to the damage he’d done, tipped his glass. "To true love—no matter how many stops you make on the way there."