Chapter 2 - You Have Nothing to Apologize For
Tristan’s eyes narrowed.
He looked almost amused.
As if I were a child refusing to understand the adult truth.
Behind him, Mara’s expression barely moved, but I saw approval in her posture.
She had wanted this.
Maybe not the shove.
But this moment.
The public correction.
The reminder that her son was Cole money and I was Evans dirt.
My father gripped my hand and slowly rose.
His body trembled.
Not from age.
From the effort of swallowing humiliation so I would not have to.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.
He reached for the yellow vest as if to remove it.
As if the vest had caused the cruelty.
As if making himself look less like who he was would repair the room.
I caught his hand and pulled the vest back around his shoulders.
“No.”
His eyes met mine.
I stepped closer and held him against my wedding dress.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
For one second, I forgot Tristan.
I forgot the guests.
I forgot the white floral arch behind us, the soft fabric decorations, the afternoon light pouring through the open doors, the cake waiting in the back, the simple tables my father had helped arrange before sunrise.
All I saw was Dad’s face.
Broken by shame he did not earn.
Then Tristan laughed once into the microphone.
A short, cruel sound.
He still held the handheld wedding mic, the one meant for vows.
The one meant for promises.
He turned toward the guests as if finally relieved to speak his truth out loud.
“I know this is uncomfortable,” he said smoothly. “But someone had to be honest.”
I turned toward him.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.
“Honest?”
“Yes, Maisie. Honest.”
He looked around the hall, confident again because the guests were silent and he mistook silence for support.
“I tried. I did. But there is a difference between marrying someone and marrying into a life of charity cases, community halls, and men who show up to weddings dressed like groundskeepers.”
A few people looked down.
One woman covered her mouth.
Mara stepped closer to her son.
“Tristan,” she said softly, but not with disapproval.
With caution.
The kind of tone that meant you’re saying too much, not you’re wrong.
Tristan kept going.
“Starting today, my family is done pretending this match makes sense.”
My father lowered his head.
I squeezed his arm.
“Look at me,” I whispered.
He did.
I said, “We are leaving.”
May you like
Tristan’s smile sharpened.
“Good. That saves everyone time.”
