The fairy lights looked like a galaxy poured over the entrance of Rosebridge Hall. White roses climbed the archway, music floated from the ballroom, and guests in tuxedos lifted their phones to capture the perfect beginning of a perfect love story.
Then the woman with the shovel stepped out of the dusk.
Claire wore a gray button-down and black jeans, not a gown. The shovel she carried wasn’t polished or pretty. But someone had tucked a small bouquet of white ranunculus onto the blade—flowers delicate enough to make the cold metal look almost ceremonial.
Inside the archway, the groom stiffened. Daniel. He was handsome in his tux, the picture of a man whose life had worked out exactly the way he planned. Beside him, the bride—Isabelle—held his arm with a bright, practiced smile that dimmed as the guests began to murmur.
