The second I stepped out of the limo, I heard forks clatter onto plates. Someone actually gasped.

It was an outdoor wedding in Tiburon—white tent, string quartet, waiters in gloves. I got the invite two weeks before, no message, just a card with gold-foiled script and plus one scrawled in. We hadn’t spoken since the divorce. He left me for her, the woman he used to “just do Pilates with.” I was working two jobs then—one at a dental office, one cleaning Airbnb rentals.

He used to roll his eyes when I’d thrift dresses or bring leftovers home in Tupperware. Called me “small-time.” So yeah. I knew why he sent the invite. I was supposed to show up in my Forever 21 shoes and watch them kiss under fairy lights.

I almost didn’t go. But then I thought—no. Let’s go big-time.

My cousin Renata works for a luxury events company. I called her, told her everything. She said, “Say less.” She hooked me up with a stylist friend who owed her a favor. Dress, hair, makeup, chauffeur. The driver opened the door like I was someone. Like I mattered.

Heads turned. A few guests whispered. His new bride, in her illusion lace mermaid gown, didn’t smile. He did. A weird, tight one. Like he’d seen a ghost.

And then his best man started his speech. And said my name.

“Let’s be real,” said Hakeem, gripping the mic with a glass of champagne in hand. “This day wouldn’t be possible without a few bumps in the road—and one very special woman who taught Raf what not to do in marriage.”

Laughter. Polite, scattered. I stood there frozen, heart pounding.

I should’ve left right then.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I smiled. Small and tight. Like someone holding back a tsunami.