Chapter 2 – “Until Death Do Us Part” (Revised)
The sunlight hit the stained-glass windows just right, casting soft prisms across the pews. Kylie adjusted the navy silk of her dress, the one Lila had begged her to wear to “match the mood board.” Her fingers trembled as she fastened the clasp on her necklace—a simple gold heart Dean had given her on their first anniversary. She stared at herself in the mirror for a beat too long. Her eyes looked tired. Hollow.
She smiled anyway. Today wasn’t about her.
Down the hallway of the church, laughter erupted from the bridal suite. Kylie inhaled deeply and approached the door, bouquet in hand. Just as she reached for the knob, the laughter morphed—low, intimate, and not quite right.
She paused.
Then came it—a whisper, followed by a sound so unmistakably intimate her knees nearly gave out.
Dean’s voice. Lila’s gasp.
She flung the door open before she could stop herself.
What she saw didn’t register at first. It was as if her brain refused to connect the dots. Dean’s shirt was untucked. Lila’s lipstick smeared. Their faces flushed not with embarrassment—but heat.
They froze, caught like teenagers in the headlights of their own recklessness.
“Kylie…” Dean started.
Her bouquet hit the floor with a dull thud.
Kylie blinked, once. Twice. Then her voice cracked open, raw and jagged: “What the hell is this?”
Lila stammered, grabbing at the silk of her gown as if modesty mattered now. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, really?” Kylie’s voice was rising, her heart thundering like a war drum in her chest. “Because it looks exactly like what I think.”
Dean stepped toward her. “Please, let me explain—”
“Explain? On her wedding day? My sister, Dean?” Her laugh was sharp, hysterical. “Is this a joke?”
Lila’s mouth opened, then closed. Silent.
Kylie turned on her heel and ran—not just out of the room, but out of the building. She didn’t remember throwing her heels off. She didn’t remember the walk home. All she knew was that by the time she slammed her apartment door shut, her whole world had shifted on its axis.
She collapsed onto the hardwood floor, dress pooling around her like spilled ink. Her sobs came hard and loud, unfiltered.
Then silence.
Then rage.
She grabbed the nearest thing—a lamp—and hurled it at the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash. The sound didn’t fix anything, but it felt like a release.
Then came the photos. Smiling faces. Vacation sun. Birthdays. Lies.
She ripped them from the walls, tore them to shreds. Every memory now felt like poison.
Kylie didn’t sleep that night. She sat in the corner of her room, knees to chest, staring into the darkness.
By dawn, something hardened in her. A quiet decision. She would not let this be her ending.
The sun rose without asking her permission.
Kylie stood under the shower far too long, the water scorching, her skin red from scrubbing—as if she could wash away the betrayal clinging to her like a second skin.
By the time she emerged, towel knotted at her chest, her phone buzzed again.
26 missed calls. 12 from Dean. 9 from Lila. 5 from her mother.
The voicemail icon blinked like a warning light.
She didn’t listen to a single one.
Instead, she made coffee—burned it—and drank it anyway.
Then she opened her laptop. Divorce lawyers. The search felt surreal, like Googling how to survive an apocalypse.
A photo of her and Dean popped up in a side folder. Their fifth anniversary dinner. She was laughing, leaning into him, unaware of the countdown clock ticking behind his eyes.
She deleted the whole folder.
By noon, her mother was banging on the door.
“Kylie, open this door right now.”
She didn’t.
“Mija, please, we need to talk.”
She pressed her forehead against the door, but stayed silent.
“Lila made a mistake, but this doesn’t mean—”
Kylie unlocked the door.
Her mother stepped back in surprise.
“Don’t you dare defend her.”
“I’m not,” her mother said softly, stepping inside. “But this wedding—”
“There is no wedding,” Kylie said. “There is no sister. No husband. There’s just me.”
Her mother’s eyes glistened. “I raised you both to love each other.”
Kylie’s voice cracked like dry earth: “And I loved her. I would have given her anything. And she took everything.”
They stood in silence, the air thick with all the things they couldn’t unsay.
Eventually, her mother left. But not before whispering, “Don’t let this make you hard. You have so much light.”
Kylie didn’t feel like light. She felt like ash.
That night, she poured herself a glass of red wine, sat at the kitchen table, and opened her journal.
She hadn’t written in months. Maybe years.
But now the words bled from her like a wound:
“Today, I died in a church.
They didn’t bury me.
But I am learning how to rise anyway.”
She closed the journal and looked out the window.
In the distance, church bells rang.
Not for her.
Not anymore.
But she would learn to ring her own.
Chapter Twelve: The Fire That Didn’t Burn Her
Two weeks later, Kylie stood outside the café where she and Lila used to meet every Sunday. It was neutral territory—public, safe. Lila had begged to talk. Kylie agreed. Not for reconciliation. For closure.
She wore black. Not for mourning, but as armor.
Lila arrived late, face pale, no makeup. Not the radiant bride-to-be anymore—just a woman unraveling under the weight of her own choices.
“Kylie…” Lila said, sliding into the seat opposite her.
Kylie didn’t respond. Just stared.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.”
Kylie laughed—sharp, humorless. “Did you mean for it to happen at all?”
Lila looked down. “I didn’t expect to fall in love with him.”
“You didn’t fall,” Kylie said. “You dove.”
Silence. The kind that crackles like a live wire.
“I was always in your shadow,” Lila whispered. “You had the job, the son, the marriage—Mom and Dad always bragged about you.”
Kylie blinked. “So you slept with my husband to level the playing field?”
“No. I just… I was lonely.”
“Then you should’ve called me. I would’ve come running.” Her voice shook. “I always came running.”
Lila’s eyes filled. But Kylie felt nothing. No urge to comfort her. Just a cold, aching truth: some bridges needed to stay burned.
She stood. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re really looking for, Lila. But it won’t be through betrayal.”
Lila reached out. “Kylie, please—”
Kylie stepped back. “We’re done.”
She walked out. Didn’t look back. Not once.
Three Months Later
Kylie stood in front of a crowded bookstore. A microphone in one hand. A paperback copy of her memoir in the other.
“Ashes Don’t Apologize: A Story of Breaking, Burning, and Becoming.”
Her son sat in the front row, beaming. Her mother beside him, tearful but proud.
“I thought betrayal would destroy me,” Kylie said into the mic. “I thought the fire would consume everything I was. But the truth is—sometimes, fire is how we find our shape. Our edge. Our strength.”
She smiled, real and wide.
“I’m not the woman I was before. I’m better. And I’m still becoming.”
Applause thundered.
And for the first time in months, Kylie didn’t just feel like she had survived.
She felt alive.
Epilogue
Dean tried to reach her. She never answered.
Lila moved to a different state. They never spoke again.
The church was booked every weekend, except one—a date permanently canceled and never rebooked.
Kylie lit a candle each year on that day.
Not for mourning.
For memory.
Because sometimes, the worst day of your life is the start of your real one.
