The invitation was elegant, embossed with heavy gold lettering on thick, cream-colored cardstock."s" It was an invitation to the wedding of Arthur Pendelton—my business partner, my savior, and the closest thing to a brother I had left in this world—and a woman named “Elena Vance.” Arthur had been private about his whirlwind romance, always smiling warmly whenever her name came up, telling me, “Javier, she saved me, just like your architecture saved this firm. You’ll meet her at the wedding. I want you as my best man.”
I couldn’t refuse him. Arthur had invested in my messy, half-drawn blueprints when I was just a grieving single father drowning in concrete dust and sorrow.
So, there I was. Five years after the world told me Lucia was dead, I was standing at the altar of a breathtaking cathedral on the outskirts of New York, adjusting my tie. Alma, now a bright, intuitive five-year-old with her mother’s piercing eyes and dark curls, sat in the front row, swinging her legs in a tiny velvet dress.
The organ music swelled, a majestic, echoing wave that filled the cavernous church. The heavy oak doors swung open.
Arthur turned, a radiant, boyish grin spreading across his face. I looked down the aisle, expecting to see a beautiful stranger. The bride walked with a slow, ethereal grace, her face entirely obscured by a cascading, layered lace veil. But as she drew closer, a strange, violent prickle began to crawl up the back of my neck.
Her posture. The slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her left shoulder. The way her small hand gripped the bouquet of white roses—firm, desperate, yet delicate.
No. It’s impossible. You’re losing your mind, Javier, I scolded myself, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Lucia is dead. Her mother told you. A car accident. Five years ago.
The bride reached the altar. Arthur stepped forward, his eyes shining with pure devotion. He reached out, his fingers catching the edge of the delicate lace veil, and slowly, gently, lifted it over her head.
The breath was violently sucked from my lungs.
The world tilted. The stained-glass windows, the rows of elegant guests, the flowers—everything blurred into a sickening smear of colors.
It was her.
It wasn’t Elena Vance. It was Lucia.
