On the day of my wedding, my fiancé's ex-girlfriend used a reconciliation token to swap herself in as the bride.

I didn't cry. I didn't argue. I simply slid the engagement ring off my finger.

My hand hung in the air between us as I spoke.

"Sebastian, a different bride means we're done. Completely."

He took the ring with a helpless smile.

"Evie, don't say that. I promised Camille that if she ever used the token, I'd give her a wedding ceremony. I can't go back on my word." He patted my head reassuringly and stepped toward the stage. "The wedding is just a formality. You're the only one I'm marrying. We'll go to City Hall tomorrow."

I watched his profile as he walked away — gentle, certain, easy.

I smiled quietly.

He didn't know that I also had a reconciliation token.

And as of that moment, I'd just used mine.

...

The ceremony continued. The officiant's voice rang out with practiced warmth.

"Groom, you may now embrace and kiss your bride!"

Before the words had fully landed, Sebastian had already lifted Camille's veil and pressed his lips to hers. Effortless. Like they'd rehearsed it a thousand times.

I stood there in silence.

My best friend's expression darkened beside me. She made a move toward the stage and I grabbed her arm.

"Don't."

She turned, eyes blazing.

"Evelyn, how could he do this to you? You waited seven years for this wedding. You designed the venue yourself, sourced every detail — you even set the crystals on the favor boxes one by one with your own hands. How could he just hand it all over for a card?"

She was right.

Seven years I'd wanted this.

Even my best friend, who'd been living overseas, knew exactly how much it meant to me.

And yet Sebastian — the man who'd once knelt before my mother and sworn he'd give me a home — said the wedding was just a formality.

She took my hand, voice thick with something I didn't want her to waste on me.

"Evelyn, you've loved him for ten years. When he couldn't sleep after his last breakup, you stayed up with him through every night. When his stomach gave out from drinking, you spent three years nursing him back to health with special soups. When he got into that fight and someone pulled a knife, you threw yourself in front of him."

"And look — he never let her go. Not for a single day."

I followed her gaze.

Camille was weaving through the reception tables in a fitted cocktail dress, smiling at every guest as she made the rounds. Sebastian followed a step behind her, quietly swapping out her champagne for orange juice.

Like he'd planned it all along.

Aside from my best friend, who was supposed to be a bridesmaid, every female guest here was someone from Camille's side of things. They cooed over what a perfect couple she and Sebastian made.

The scene was seamlessly harmonious.

So seamless it looked like it had always been their wedding.

I blinked, and suddenly they were standing in front of me.

Camille wore an expression of exaggerated regret, but her eyes were bright with triumph.

"Evelyn, I'm so sorry — I didn't mean to take your wedding. I just wanted to heal something I'd regretted for so long, and Sebastian, well... he couldn't help it. He just couldn't break a promise. Please don't be too upset with me." She held up her glass with a saccharine smile. "But thank you, really, for being so understanding. This toast is for you."

The apology was all surface. The satisfaction ran all the way through.

Sebastian, meanwhile, smiled at me like he hadn't heard any of it and mouthed two silent words.

Be good.

I'd heard those two words a thousand times across seven years.

Our anniversary — he'd ditched me to take Camille to a movie. Be good.

When I had surgery for a stomach infection — he was at the vet with Camille's dog. Be good.

And now, as he handed my wedding over to another woman — still, be good.

As though I weren't his girlfriend. As though I were a pet he kept around for entertainment — someone he'd play with when he was bored and shoo back to her corner when company arrived.

I gathered myself, raised my glass, and clinked it against Camille's.

"It's all right. Congratulations to you both."

I drained it in one go.

Camille laughed behind her hand.

Sebastian blinked.

The next second I was coughing from the burn of straight bourbon.

He patted my back and replaced my glass immediately with orange juice.

"Drink this. It'll help."

The concern in his eyes was genuine. I'd give him that.

But looking down at the glass, something bitter spread quietly through my chest.

Seven years.

I'd told him more than once that I was allergic to citrus.

He'd never remembered.

Not because he couldn't — because orange juice was Camille's favorite.

I pushed the glass aside.

"Thanks, but I'm allergic to orange juice."

He froze, lips parting like he was about to say something.

"Sebastian," Camille tugged his sleeve, "it's time for photos with the guests."

His attention snapped to her immediately. He left without looking back.

My best friend glared at their retreating figures, then turned to me.

"Evelyn, let it go. Don't go to City Hall tomorrow."

I paused for just a moment, then gently covered her hand with mine.

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

I still needed to get that marriage license.

Just not with him.