I came home six days before our wedding to a dark house and a box of invitation proofs I had not packed. Adrian wasn't there. He had told my best friend he was picking me up from the airport. Instead, his shared calendar was full of "meetings," and in his desk drawer I found a two-night hotel confirmation with a second guest: Camille Vaughn, the attorney from his Meridian acquisition. I carried the wedding binders, the guest list, the ribbon, the life we had built—to the back room and shut the door. I didn't cry. I started matching dates. The light we installed together was still on. The life it was supposed to mean had gone dark long before. Now I have to decide whether to cancel the wedding quietly, or let all two hundred and four guests see exactly who he is.