The night before my wedding, I overheard my bridesmaids planning to destroy the happiest day of my life, and by sunrise, I had decided that none of them would be allowed to stand beside me when I said, “I do.”
At 12:07 a.m., I sat on the edge of the bed in the Lakeview Hotel, listening to the women I had trusted for years discuss how to humiliate me in front of everyone I loved.
“Pour wine on her dress, lose the rings, whatever we have to do,” Vanessa said through the connecting wall. “She doesn’t deserve him.”
A glass clinked against another.
Then my maid of honor laughed.
“I’ve been trying to win him over for months.”
My name is Olivia Bennett. I was twenty-nine years old, less than twelve hours away from marrying Ethan Cole, the man I had loved for nearly four years. My wedding gown hung inside a garment bag beside the wardrobe, my vows rested on the nightstand, and a framed photograph of Ethan and me at the Newport harbor stood beside a vase of white roses.
