The microphone squeals as Julian picks it up, and I realize—too late—that something is wrong. I'm standing at the altar in my Vera Wang gown, three months pregnant, watching my fiancé turn away from me to face two hundred guests. His hand is steady. His jaw is set. This isn't nerves. "I need to say something," Julian announces. The ballroom goes quiet. My mother Patricia shifts in the front row, her face carefully blank in a way that makes my chest tighten. She knew. Somehow, she knew this was coming. "I never wanted this marriage." The words land like a slap. I don't move. Can't move. Julian's voice is calm, almost rehearsed. "Vanessa manipulated me into it with the pregnancy. I tried to do the right thing, but I can't stand here and lie anymore." He sets down the microphone and walks off the stage. Rachel Voss—my maid of honor, my best friend since college—meets him at the bottom of the stairs. She takes his hand. They walk out together. The ballroom is silent. Two hundred people staring at me in my white dress, my belly barely showing, my face burning. My mother rushes to the microphone. "Everyone, please—this is just pre-wedding jitters. If you could just—" I walk over and take the mic from her hands. "The wedding is cancelled," I say. My voice doesn't shake. I'm surprised by that. "The marriage is over. Thank you for coming." I pause, looking at my mother's desperate face, at the guests frozen in their seats, at the empty doorway where Julian and Rachel just disappeared. "I'm scheduling a termination." I set down the microphone and walk off the stage. My phone buzzes in the hidden pocket of my dress. I pull it out. A text from Dr. Patel, my OB-GYN: *Vanessa, I need to see you immediately. There's something about the paternity test you requested last week.*