I didn’t wipe the blood from my nose. I let it drip onto the pristine white bodice of my ten-thousand-dollar wedding gown, watching the crimson bloom against the silk like ink on parchment.

A heavy thud rattled the mahogany doors of the suite.

"Claire! Open this damn door!" Derek’s voice bellowed from the hallway. "You are my wife! You open this door right now or I swear to God—"

"Derek, stop!" Patricia’s panicked voice cut in from outside. "The hotel manager is coming up with security! Don't do this here!"

"She's ruining my life!" Derek roared, hitting the door again.

Inside, I calmly peeled off my veil. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. My hair was matted with buttercream, my eye makeup was smeared, and a dried line of blood tracked down to my lip. But for the first time in eighteen months, the fear in my chest was gone. It had been replaced by a icy, surgical clarity.

The banging on the door suddenly stopped, replaced by stern, authoritative voices.

"Sir, step away from the door. Hands where we can see them."

"Do you know who I am?" Derek shouted. "I’m Derek Sterling! My family owns—"

"I don't care if you're the mayor, sir. Put your hands behind your back."

Lena unlocked the door and pulled it open just in time for us to watch two police officers force Derek down onto the plush carpet. The wrists that had squeezed mine until they bruised were now bound in shiny steel handcuffs.