Chapter 2: The Ex at the Altar

The next time I saw Marcus Whitlow was at my wedding.

Life’s got a real twisted sense of humor. There I was, wrapped in white lace and nerves, thinking I’d finally closed the book on Marcus—only to have him show up right when I was supposed to be starting my happily ever after.

He was Ethan Hart’s boss.

I was in my wedding dress, arm in arm with Ethan, grinning as we greeted guests at the entrance to the downtown hotel. I looked up—and there was Marcus, walking toward us.

The lobby buzzed with laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses. My grip on Ethan’s arm tightened, my smile freezing in place. For a split second, I wondered if I was seeing things—if maybe my mind had conjured up a ghost just to mess with me.

We hadn’t seen each other in three years. He looked almost exactly the same—calm, composed, steady, like nothing in the world could shake him.

He wore a perfectly tailored suit, his dark hair a little longer, but those eyes—still sharp, still measuring. It was almost infuriating how time seemed to bounce right off him. As he walked, a server backed up, nearly tripping, and a couple guests stopped to stare, making space as if he carried his own gravitational field.

He paused when he saw me, but slipped right back into his usual composure, not letting a single emotion show. He smiled and congratulated Ethan.

His handshake was firm, his words smooth, but his eyes barely flickered over me. If there was any recognition, it was buried so deep I almost doubted it ever existed. For a second, I wondered if I’d made it all up.

Only when I handed him the guest card did he glance up at me, his face completely blank.

His fingers brushed mine for half a second, cool and impersonal. I met his gaze, forcing myself not to flinch. The moment passed, and he moved on.

I stayed perfectly still.

Or at least, I tried. My heart was pounding against my ribs, but I kept my face serene—the perfect bride, nothing to hide.

Later, I saw him again. He was waiting for me in a side hallway as I left the dressing room to change outfits, just leaning there against the wall like he owned the place.

The hallway was dim, the carpet thick enough to swallow my footsteps. I nearly jumped when I saw him—tall, composed, like he’d always belonged in that spot. The way he leaned, hands in his pockets, made it clear he wasn’t budging until he’d said what he came to say.

I didn’t know how he’d managed to slip past so many people’s eyes to get there, but if Marcus wanted to do something, nothing could stop him.

He had this uncanny knack for slipping through cracks, bending the world to fit his will. Sometimes I’d sigh, half annoyed, half impressed—it was almost a superpower, and it always left you on edge.

He looked at me quietly for a long time before saying, “After we broke up, I went back to look for you, but I couldn’t find you.”

His voice was low, almost gentle. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had faded out, just the two of us and the ghosts of everything we’d never said.

I froze, stunned, before snapping back to myself.

My pulse spiked, but I forced a polite smile. Years of acting on stage had taught me how to wear a mask, even when my insides were a total mess. Sometimes you just gotta fake it.

I smiled politely, careful to keep my distance. "Mr. Whitlow, please respect that it’s my wedding day. I don’t want any drama or misunderstandings."

My words were crisp, every syllable measured. I tucked a stray hair behind my ear, standing tall, determined not to let him see even a crack in my armor.

“Misunderstandings?” He let out a short, dry laugh, his gaze holding steady on me.

There was a flicker in his eyes—maybe amusement, maybe something darker. His lips curled in that old, infuriating way I remembered too well.

I knew his type—the angrier he got, the calmer he acted. He was probably annoyed I was denying our past, and that just made him dig in deeper.

Classic Marcus: the more you tried to shut him out, the more interested he got. He lived for tension, for the games people play when they’re desperate not to care. I remembered that all too well.