Chapter 1

It's my wedding day.

Everything is happening just as I've always dreamed.

I'm dressed up in the finest wedding gown from Kleinfeld's. The cameras are flashing. My laced veil is trailing behind me and I haven't tripped on it once.

For once in my screwed up life, this day is unfolding just as I've always planned. 

After what seems like forever, I hear footsteps behind me. It's my groom. Maybe there will be tears when he sees how beautiful I look.

Someone taps my shoulder.

I turn around.

The photographer is the one who tapped my shoulder. He shrugs. He looks confused.

No, this isn't happening.

I glance frantically in the direction of the stairwell where Kevin was supposed to appear.

There's no one there.

Oh. My. God.

WHAT KIND OF A GROOM DOESN'T SHOW UP TO HIS BRIDE'S FIRST LOOK?

I'm furious, and I'm about to smash this bouquet of white roses into the nearest photographer. Kevin Monroe, I'm going to wrap my French manicured nails around his neck and choke him for this.

I'm running through the halls of the wedding venue, holding my Monique Lhuillier (purchased on sale at Kleinfeld two weeks ago) over my knees and nearly tripping over the satin Manolo Blahniks that are in no way broken in.

All I hear is the sound of my ragged breathing as I knock on the door to his dressing room.

Knock, knock.

KNOCK!

Dammit, Kevin!

Leave it up to poor, pathetic me to hitch myself to a runaway husband.

I pray this mascara is waterproof as I lean my forehead against the wooden door. He can't leave me at the altar before we've even walked down the aisle! What will my family say?

They'll probably ask me — who gets married on Valentine's Day?

If my dad were alive, he'd say; statistically, people who get married in the big V day are twice as likely to get divorced. I know this, but this was the only availability at the Gotham Hall in Midtown, New York, which I could book with only three months' advance notice.

It seems fitting almost, for the girl who never got a valentine, not even a card in elementary school from her teacher, or a single rose during the high school valentine's day dance, or even a glance from a college boy anytime in the vicinity of that romantic holiday— to get married on Valentine's day. It's like, the universe had decided that finally, I've had enough microwave dinners in front of the TV on this holiday. I would finally have a little bit of romance in my life.

I'm a chemist by trade. I dropped out of medical school when my dad died. I couldn't work at the teaching hospital where he died, and I decided that I enjoyed benchwork more anyway. I've always been painfully shy, even before my dad was riddled with bullets while trying to save a trauma victim in the ER lobby. No one looked at me the same way after that happened. It's always, poor girl. Did you hear about what happened to her dad?

My mom, who remarried and is now pregnant — paid for this wedding with part of my dad's life insurance. Everyone was so eager for me to marry Kevin Monroe, the easy-going lawyer son of the infamous Big Joe of Big Joe's Pizzaria.

It took me three years, and endless threats before Kevin finally decided to put a ring on it. No, he didn't even put a physical ring on it. He gave me a pair of earrings from Costco and told me he doesn't believe in wedding rings. I brought myself a matching ring so my mother wouldn't yell at me for being a fool.

Well, as it turns out. She's right. I am a fool.

I've been stood up in front of all my family and friends. What about Kevin's side of the family, you ask? Kevin hates his family; he didn't invite a single one of them to the wedding. As for friends, heck, who would want to be friends with Kevin?

I always thought I was so magnanimous to be Kevin's only friend, his only confidant. He always told me that he would have spent his entire life alone if I hadn't swiped on him on Tinder. He always got mad at me for talking about the crazy women-killing murderers on CNN because, in another life, he might have been one of them. I may not be saving people with science, but I saved Kevin with my love.

Or so I thought.

I don't know what to do. What do I say to my 90-year-old grandma, who flew across the world to attend this wedding? Or to my uncle, who I hadn't seen since I was six, who had never been to New York City before but had purchased his first tuxedo to attend a fancy big-city wedding?

What do I tell them? 

Sorry, my bad! Go back home.

I want to die.

As I am sinking into the wall beside Kevin's dressing room door, it suddenly opens a crack. I jump up at attention and dry my tears with the back of my hand.

Is it Kevin?

Was this all a mistake?

No.

It's not Kevin.

Not at all.

There's a man with piercing blue eyes staring back at me. He's drop-dead handsome, and I don't know what the heck he's doing in my stupid ex-fiancé's room.

"Who are you?"

"I-I'm one of the groomsmen," he explains breathlessly like I'm the last person he expected to bump into here. Is he trying to make a run for it? I see him glance down the hallway like he's searching for a red exit sign.

"Where is my dipshit groom? Kevin!" I scream. "KEVIN! Are you in there?" I search the dressing room looking for any trace of Kevin's stuff. I see nothing. Not a single stray sock, a cufflink, or a button from his Men's Warehouse tuxedo. The bathroom door is open, and there's nothing inside. "Did they send you to look for Kevin?"

"Yeah, I am looking for him. Now, if you excuse me, I heard he's running late."

"Liar," I snarl. "How do you know Kevin?"

"We're coworkers."

"He has never mentioned you."

"I'm a boring sort of guy."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight until you tell me where Kevin is right now. I want the truth. I'm his future wife. I deserve to know." Before the handsome stranger could reply, I continue. "Kevin changed his mind, didn't he? He didn't want to marry me. I twisted his arm. He wouldn't even come to look at the venue with me. If he's lost, he can just get lost and never talk to me again."

"Cool it," the stranger says and puts his hands up to protect himself. I marvel momentarily at his watch. It's a Rolex. Is he really who he says he is? Kevin is a public defender. "Kevin is a jam, that's all. He got out of bed today, tripped, and broke his nose. It was gruesome. There was blood everywhere. He's at the hospital now. Don't worry. It's not serious. It's just the wedding jitters."

"Why didn't he text me?"

"He left his phone at home. That's why he sent me to come and walk you down the aisle. In his place."

"What? I'm going to kill him."

"Fine, frankly, I thought it was a ridiculous plan. If you say no, then I'll head out. What kind of a lady would want a screwball like myself walking her down the aisle?"

"No, no, wait!" I yell as the handsome stranger turns and heads toward the exit. "Oh, okay, if that's my only option. Just for the record, I'm still angry at Kevin."

"Of course, completely understandable."

The handsome stranger smiles and winks at me. I don't know what has come over me, but I feel a tingling in the pit of my stomach like I couldn't remember Kevin's full name. The stranger buttons the top two buttons of his shirt when he notices that I am staring at the muscular chest peeking out from underneath. Is this guy a lawyer? Do lawyers have muscles like that? My eyes go to the outline of his biceps that are bulging out of the loose fabric of his white shirt. He's taller than me by almost a head, and it's easy for me to get lost staring at the bobbing of his Adam's apple, the dark tanned skin of his clean-shaven chin, and the sinews of his bull-like neck.

"I'm not Kevin, but I promise you, give me half an hour, and I can clean myself up." The stranger heads back into the room and goes into the bathroom. I hear the sound of the faucet being turned on.

"What's your name?" I ask as I peer into the ajar bathroom door. I like the way he stands with his legs apart, like he's a man who exudes dominance. He whips a black silk tie out from the duffle bag he had with him. I see lumps in the bag's fabric, and I decide not to stare too hard. The bag's contents look heavy. Like something made of metal. No, stop it, Lyvie! Those are probably just folders. . .full of documents.

"Nicholas Madigan. You can call me Nick."

"My name is Lyvia," I clear my throat and stop my eyes from gluing themselves to his well-formed ass and robust, strapping thighs. I didn't even know that men's dress pants could look that sexy until now. "Lyvia Burns."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Burns. Or should I say, Mrs. Monroe?"

"No, Ms. Burns is fine," I mutter bitterly. "Kevin would be lucky if I don't refer to myself as Mrs. Madigan when this day is over."

Nick turns and smirks at me. The tie is on now, and he's right. With his substantial chest concealed, he looks like a perfect yuppie professional. He might even fool my grandma into thinking he's a good boy. But I wasn't born yesterday. I know that no good boys have fuck-me eyes like Nick Madigan's. For once, my player-radar is working overtime. 

Danger danger! The sirens in my head blare.

But, for eight long years, I clung to poor, safe Kevin because he would never hurt me. And now, he isn't even here at his own wedding. I don't believe Nick's story that Kevin broke his nose for a second. Kevin had been acting distant from me all week. He didn't show up to our rehearsal dinner because he had a work project taking up all his time.

Who is Nick Madigan?

I don't know. The tingling in the pit of my stomach is spreading lower now as Nick leads the way back to the foyer for our wedding photos. He adjusts the knot at his throat and smiles at me. I'll try to keep my ugly mug out of the photos, Nick tells me. You just prop me where you want me, sweetheart. This is your day, after all. 

The photographer sighs with relief when I return to the foyer with my would-be husband.

Nick isn't who he says he is.

And I don't care.