Chapter 2 - The Vera Wang and The Breaking Point
The cab driver blinked in the rearview mirror. "Then where to?" I gave him an address he didn't expect—a newly built luxury condo complex across town.
As we pulled into traffic, moving in the exact opposite direction of the wedding motorcade, my phone started vibrating violently. It was Chad. I declined it. He called a second time. Declined. By the fifth call, I just powered the device off completely.
The silence was intoxicating. Twelve years. I had loved Chad for twelve years, and in a matter of seconds, the entire illusion was officially dead.
When the cab pulled up to the gated complex, I paid in cash and dragged my massive gown into the elevator. I scanned my fingerprint, and the door to my own private sanctuary swung open. A penthouse I had bought entirely on my own, a secret escape plan I had prayed I’d never actually have to use.
I kicked off my Jimmy Choos, walking barefoot across the hardwood floor to the floor-to-ceiling windows. My gown pooled around me like a shattered white rose. I pulled out my burner phone and shot a quick text to my parents: "Mom, Dad, the wedding is off. Tell the guests to go home. I’m safe, don't worry about me."
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Then, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a pair of heavy-duty shears, and returned to the living room. I took the waistline of the forty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown and squeezed the scissors. The sound of tearing silk was the most satisfying thing I had ever heard.
I scrubbed my face clean of the bridal makeup, throwing on a simple sweatshirt. Booting up my laptop, I opened a folder labeled "Plan B." Inside were spreadsheets of every single wedding expense I had covered: the venue deposits, the florist, the catering. I exported it as a PDF, attached the deed to the townhouse Chad and I had supposedly bought "together," and hit send.
