The morning of my wedding was supposed to glow with joy. Sunlight streamed through the hotel curtains, soft and golden, brushing against the ivory folds of my dress hanging near the window. My bridesmaids buzzed around me—fixing curls, adjusting ribbons, chattering with excitement. On the outside, I smiled and nodded. Inside, my stomach fluttered with nerves that felt bigger than bridal jitters.
This was my second chance at love… and I wanted so badly for it to be right.
I met Paul three years earlier when I wasn’t even trying to rebuild my heart. I was thirty-two, tired of heartbreak, and convinced that romance was a storm I never wanted to get caught in again. But Paul was steady, warm, and confident in the gentlest way. He made me feel safe. Seen. Wanted. His calm voice and easy laugh wrapped around my wounds like a healing balm.
He came with a teenage son, Luke — a kid with quiet eyes and guarded shoulders. I tried hard to reach him. Movie nights. Favorite meals. Careful conversations. Sometimes he’d offer a shy smile, sometimes only silence, but we were building something — or so I believed.
By the time Paul proposed, Luke had accepted our relationship. He wasn’t enthusiastic, but he wasn’t resistant either. That small, awkward smile he’d given me after the engagement felt like a step forward. I held onto that.
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