I spent twenty-seven surgeries rebuilding my body after saving my sister from a fire, only for her to hide me behind a choir screen because my scars ruined her wedding photos.

The church in Charleston, South Carolina, smelled of white roses, polished oak, and perfume expensive enough to linger in the air long after the guests had gone home.

I sat at the far end of the second row with my wheelchair turned slightly toward the aisle so no one would have to squeeze past me. I had planned that detail carefully. I always planned details like that—where the light would fall, how wide the aisle was, whether there would be stairs, and how quickly I could slip away if people stared too long.

My hands rested quietly in my lap beneath thin ivory gloves. The gloves were not necessary, medically speaking. They simply covered some of the worst scarring across my fingers and wrists. Under the lace sleeves of my dark navy dress, the scars continued. They climbed my arms, crossed my shoulders, spread over my back and legs, and rose along the left side of my neck. Half my face bore them too: thick in some places, shiny in others, uneven, and permanent.

I was twenty-nine years old, but there were mornings when my reflection made me feel seventy. People tried not to stare; some looked away too quickly, while others stared and pretended they had not. Children were usually the most honest. Adults were the cruelest because they knew exactly what they were doing.

At the altar stood my younger sister, Emily. She was twenty-two, beautiful, radiant, and utterly untouched by tragedy. Her pearl-white gown fit her like it had been sculpted against her skin. Her dark hair fell in polished waves beneath a cathedral veil, and sunlight passing through the stained-glass windows painted soft colors across her bare shoulders. Every photographer in the sanctuary seemed hypnotized by her.

Emily had always photographed well. Even as a child. Especially after the fire.

I watched her laughing with one of her bridesmaids before the prelude began. For a heartbeat, I could almost see the ten-year-old girl she had once been—the little girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms because she believed I had the power to keep lightning away. The little girl I had carried through an inferno.

That memory never arrived gently. It came with the deafening roar of oxygen feeding an open flame, the crack of splitting rafters, and the sound of my sister screaming my name from the second floor of our home twelve years ago. I had been seventeen. Our parents, Linda and Mark, were already standing on the front lawn, screaming in helplessness. I didn't wait for sirens. I broke through the kitchen, climbed stairs that collapsed beneath my boots, wrapped Emily in wool, and held her against my chest while ceiling beams crashed across my shoulders.

I threw her from a low roof into a neighbor’s arms. Then the wall exploded behind me.

Twenty-seven surgeries followed. Skin grafts. Infections. Nerve deadening. While Emily walked away with a superficial burn on her collarbone that faded by her twelfth birthday, I spent my twenties learning how to sit upright without fainting from pain.

Apparently, my survival was heroic only when it wasn't captured on 4K camera lenses.

As the wedding coordinator signaled that the processional would begin in five minutes, Emily glided down the center aisle for a final lighting check. She smiled at cousins, touched her veil, and pivoted toward the lead photographer.

Then her eyes found mine.

The radiance vanished from her face. Her lips tightened into a thin, bloodless line. She didn't wave. She didn't smile. Instead, she leaned toward our mother, Linda, who was fluttering near the front pew in mother-of-the-bride blush silk. Emily whispered something sharply into Linda’s ear, her manicured finger flicking in my direction with unmistakable disgust.

Linda’s shoulders stiffened. She glanced at me, swallowed, and hurried down the aisle, her designer heels clicking urgently against the marble floor.

"Claire," Linda whispered, bending low so the guests in row three wouldn't hear. Her breath smelled of mints and nervous sweat. "Darling. You... you can't sit here."

I looked down at my gloved hands. "Mom, the usher seated me here. It’s the family row."

"Yes, but the videographer needs the full wide-angle tracking shot from the back of the sanctuary to the altar," Linda stammered, refusing to look at the left side of my face. "Your chair... it juts into the frame. Emily is hysterical. She’s worked for a year on the aesthetic of this day. You understand how important photographs are to the Callahan family."

"The aesthetic," I repeated, the word tasting like ash. "You want me to move."

"Just behind the choir screen," Linda pleaded, her fingers digging into my armrest. "There’s a lovely little alcove near the vestry. You can still hear everything through the speakers! It’s private. You’ll be much more comfortable out of the draft."

She wasn't worried about my comfort. She was worried about Emily’s wedding album.

Before I could answer, a shadow fell over us. Margaret Callahan, the groom's mother, stood at the edge of the row. Tall, draped in dove-gray couture, her silver hair styled in an elegant chignon, Margaret was the undisputed matriarch of Charleston society. Her blue eyes were cool, observant, and entirely fixed on my mother’s trembling hands.