Page 1 of Shattered

CHAPTER 1

Delia

I’m getting married today.

The bridal suite smelled of roses and promises not yet kept, and I stood in front of the mirror while Sarah worked on my veil, her hands quick and sure, talking about how Jake would probably cry when he saw me.

I tried to believe her.

My phone sat on the vanity, screen dark and silent.

No good morning text. No 'I can't wait to see you.' Nothing.

Wedding jitters, I told myself. Men got nervous about these things, right? Big commitment, three hundred guests, the weight of forever pressing down. It made sense.

Except Jake had never been nervous about us before.

He'd been nervous about work—investors, competitors, board decisions. But us? He’d always been confident about us. Even during the times when we’d been off and on, he was always frustratingly confident that we’d end up together even when I wasn’t.

“Delia, you’re doing that thing again.” Sarah caught my eye in the mirror, her expression shifting from wedding coordinator mode to best friend intervention. “Stop spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“Your eye’s twitching.”

I pressed my fingers against it. “It’s not.”

“You look perfect.” She smoothed the veil one more time, the diamond on her left hand catching the light. “Gorgeous. Stunning. Jake won't know what hit him.”

The way she said his name—just a fraction too careful, like she was handling something that might break—made my stomach drop.

“You think he will, right?” My voice was a nervous breath.

“Of course.” She squeezed my shoulders, but something in her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

That wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement. Sarah had been quietly skeptical about Jake from the start—that particular best friend wariness when they think you could do better. She’d warmed up eventually. Mostly.

I tried to smile back. It felt like I was wearing someone else’s face.

The door opened and my mother walked in, elegant in emerald green, her hair swept up in a style that took two hours and made her look ten years younger. She stopped when she saw me, one hand going to her chest, and for a moment her face was completely clear. Completely her.

“Oh, sweetheart." Her voice caught. "You look perfect.”

I felt something break loose in my chest. “Mom.”

She crossed the room and took my face in her hands, those same hands that had braided my hair and wiped my tears and taught me how to mix paint until the colors sang. Her hands trembled—that constant tremor she tried to hide but couldn't.

“Your father would have loved this,” she said, and I could see her eyes getting bright. “He would have been so proud. My beautiful girl.”

I memorized her face—the clear, bright intelligence in her eyes, the way she really saw me, really knew me. The diagnosis had come five years ago, though she'd likely been sick for six years before anyone noticed. Six years of small moments slipping away before anyone noticed. Before we understood why she kept asking the same questions, why she seemed confused about things that used to be second nature.

Good days were rare now. The bad days were winning, a tide I couldn't turn back.

I didn’t know how many more clear days I’d get with her. How many more moments where she looked at me and knew exactly who I was so I treasured moments like this.

“He would have walked you down the aisle,” she continued, adjusting my veil with shaky fingers. “He would have cried. You know how he was about you. His little artist.”

“I know.” My voice came out thick and I had to swallow hard to keep the tears from starting. Not now. I couldn’t cry now. My makeup was perfect and the ceremony was starting in five minutes and I needed to hold it together.