I remember the sound of Caleb unfolding the paper more clearly than the band’s last note. He didn’t shout, didn’t accuse; he simply laid out numbers and names like evidence on a courtroom table. Debts. Lawsuits. Women who’d disappeared from Arthur’s life with nothing but scars and silence. The guests stared at their plates as if the truth might be hiding in the gravy instead of hanging in the air.

Rowan’s face drained of color, but she didn’t crumble. When her bouquet hit the floor, it sounded like a gavel. She walked out, shoulders shaking, veil dragging, choosing humiliation over a lifetime of quiet damage. In the weeks after, our house filled with late-night conversations and broken-open secrets. Therapy appointments replaced cake tastings. We learned that love without truth is just performance. That prenup I’d once signed in fear became proof I’d believed I deserved safety. That ruined wedding didn’t destroy our family; it finally set it free.