The problem with fairytales was that no one ever warned you when the castle started rotting from the inside.
Seraphina Vale stood before the mirror in her bridal suite, wrapped in the kind of silk that whispered wealth and stitched perfection. The custom Vera Wang clung to her body like it was made from the breath of angels. Cameras outside the door clicked softly. Her wedding planner buzzed around like a caffeinated hummingbird. Her mother kept touching up her lipstick like it would somehow fix the tightening in Seraphina's chest.
"You look like royalty," her mother beamed.
Sera gave a smile she'd perfected for press interviews—polished, practiced, hollow. "Thanks, Mom."
Inside, something ached. Not cold feet. Not nerves. Something...off. Like someone had shifted the furniture inside her soul just enough to make her feel unsteady.
Her phone buzzed on the marble counter.
1 New Message.
From: Anonymous
> I wouldn't marry him if I were you. Check the hotel room next door. 802.
Love always, betrayal never sleeps.
Her heart stopped. A prank? Jealous gossip? Maybe it was someone from her PR past—clients loved a little chaos.
But her gut... that part of her that always knew when things were about to collapse? That part started screaming.
Without a word, Sera stepped out of the bridal suite and into the gilded hallway of the Westchester Hotel. No one noticed—too busy prepping flower girls and setting up aerial drone shots for the Instagram-perfect ceremony.
Room 802 was two doors down. Her heels echoed like drumbeats in a funeral march.
She knocked. Once.
No answer.
She turned the handle.
Unlocked.
And just like that—her world died.
Julian's voice. Laughter. A familiar moan.
Her best friend—Madeline—naked on the bed. Her fiancé—Julian—hovering over her like a man who'd never promised anyone forever.
They didn't even notice her. Not at first. Too tangled in each other to care about the woman in the wedding dress watching her life implode.
It was Madeline who gasped first. "Sera—!"
Julian whipped around, wide-eyed, naked, and unashamed. "It's not what it looks like."
Sera laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because what else do you say to the man you planned forever with while he's inside your maid of honor?
She said nothing. Just stared at them, her breath frozen, heart roaring in her ears.
"I—" Julian stumbled. "I was going to tell you. After the wedding. I didn't want to hurt you—"
"Mission accomplished," she whispered.
"Mission accomplished," she whispered.
Then she turned. Walked out. Left her bouquet by the door like a funeral offering.
She passed the wedding planner screaming into her headset, passed her mother asking what was wrong, passed a thousand guests sipping champagne and waiting to celebrate a lie.
Seraphina didn't stop walking until she was barefoot in the rain, mascara streaking down cheeks that had been kissed by betrayal.
And then she disappeared.
---
Three months later
The town of Willow's End wasn't on most maps. It sat like a secret at the edge of the Atlantic, all crashing waves, peeling paint, and locals who knew too much about each other's business.
Which was exactly why Seraphina Vale rented a tiny cottage there under the name "Sera V."
No headlines. No photographers. No Julian.
Just the sea and the silence and the slow stitching of a woman back together.
She ran a hand through her newly chopped, shoulder-length hair—dyed darker, duller, safer. The waves outside her cottage slapped the rocks like applause from ghosts.
She breathed.
She let herself feel empty.
And still, Julian's voice haunted her.
> "It didn't mean anything."
> "You know how close I've always been with Mads."
> "You're overreacting, babe."
She didn't respond to his last voicemail. Or the three dozen before that. She blocked his number. Burned her wedding dress in the backyard. Watched silk and lace turn to ash.
She hadn't cried since that night.
She wanted to. Sometimes. But her body felt... dry. Hollow. Like she'd used up every tear she'd ever had.
---
She found work at a quiet bookstore called The Rusted Spine, run by a retired punk-rocker named Daphne who didn't ask questions. Daphne offered her tea, a quiet paycheck, and the kind of silence that healed more than it hurt.
"You're not from around here," Daphne had said on day one, eyeing her with knowing eyes.
"No," Sera had replied. "I'm not from anywhere anymore."
That had been enough.
---
One rainy Tuesday, he walked in.
Not Julian.
No, this man had gravity.
He moved like the storm outside had made him.
Dark coat. Five o'clock shadow. Eyes that had seen things and learned not to flinch.
He picked up a copy of The Bell Jar and raised an eyebrow when he saw her.
"You don't look like a Sylvia Plath kind of girl," he said.
Sera raised an eyebrow. "And you don't look like you read at all."
A flicker of a smile.
"Touché," he murmured, flipping the book over.
"You buying or flirting?"
"Maybe both."
She should've shut it down. She wasn't ready. She didn't even know who she was anymore. But something about the stranger pulled at her—like a thread she'd forgotten she was made of.
"Julian," he said, offering a hand.
Her blood froze.
He smirked. "Kidding. Name's Rowan."
Of course it wasn't Julian. Julian didn't have calloused hands and moon-colored eyes. Julian didn't look like he'd let you cry without needing to fix it.
Sera didn't smile. But she didn't look away either.
"Seraphina," she said quietly. The name tasted strange after months of silence.
"Pretty name," Rowan said.
She shrugged. "It used to be."