The envelope is heavier than it should be. Vivienne pressed it into my hands three hours ago, her fingers cold despite the June heat, her wedding dress still hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She wouldn't look at me when she said it—just stared at the mirror, at her own reflection, like she was memorizing someone she'd never see again. "Promise me, Sloane. Only if I don't walk down that aisle. Only then." I promised. Of course I promised. Vivienne has been my best friend since we were seven years old, since the summer our families rented houses next to each other on the coast and we decided we were sisters in every way that mattered. When she asked me to be her maid of honor, I cried. When she told me she was pregnant two months ago, I held her while she panicked about the timing, about what Julian's family would think, about whether white was still appropriate. I didn't ask why she needed an insurance policy on her own wedding day. Now I'm standing in the garden behind the Ashford estate, watching three hundred guests shift in their chairs, and the aisle is empty. The string quartet has cycled through their entire repertoire twice. Julian stands at the altar, his jaw tight, his hands clasped behind his back like he's trying to hold himself together through sheer force. His brother Marcus, the best man, keeps glancing toward the house. Then at his phone. Then at Julian. The pattern repeats every thirty seconds. "Sloane." Julian's voice cuts through the whispers. He's walking toward me, away from the altar, and the guests' murmurs rise like a wave. "Where is she?" "I don't know." "You're lying." His eyes drop to my hands. To the envelope. "What is that?" My fingers tighten on the paper. "Julian—" "Give it to me." "She said only if—" "She's not coming." His voice cracks. "Whatever's in that letter, I need to see it. Please." I look past him, toward Marcus. He's frozen halfway down the aisle, staring at us. At the envelope. Julian's hand closes over mine. "Please." I open it. The card inside is thick, expensive, embossed with Vivienne's initials. Her handwriting is perfectly steady, each letter formed with the careful precision she uses when she's terrified. *The baby isn't yours—it's your brother's.* I look up. Marcus is still staring at me from across the empty aisle, his face white with terror.