When her sister forced her into four-inch stilettos despite permanent nerve damage, she walked down the aisle with blood soaking through her shoe—right before her family's favorite phrase broke for good.

The string quartet launched into Canon in D with the heavy, solemn precision of a royal coronation.

The ushers moved first, followed by the groomsmen—tall men in matching midnight-blue tuxedos who looked like they had been assembled from a catalog of junior vice presidents. Then came the bridesmaids, gliding across the white carpet with synchronized smiles that suggested they had practiced in front of a mirror until their jaw muscles ached.

I was fourth in line.

Because of my left foot, every step required a conscious calculation. Plant the heel, shift the weight carefully, push off from the right. It was slow and mechanical, but from a distance, it probably looked like ordinary walking.

Up ahead, Sutton stood at the top of the short flight of stone steps outside the garden entrance, waiting for our father to escort her down the aisle. She looked radiant, absolute perfection in lace and tulle, her veil catching the late afternoon sun like spun silver.

When I reached the halfway point of the aisle, a sharp sensation radiated up through my ankle.

It wasn't the dull ache I was used to. It felt hot. Needle-sharp. Like a wasp sting right beneath the heel bone.

I gritted my teeth, forcing my face to remain neutral. Just keep moving, I told myself. Ten more steps. Then you can sit down at the front.

By the time I reached the designated row of chairs, my left shoe felt entirely waterlogged.

I didn't need surface sensation to know what warm liquid was pooling against my stocking.

I took my place beside the altar, my fingers gripping the edge of my bouquet so tightly my knuckles turned white. Across the aisle, Declan stood waiting near the altar, looking handsome, composed, and completely unaware of the disaster unfolding three feet to his left.

The music swelled. Our father escorted Sutton down the aisle, beaming with the proud, uncomplicated joy he only ever reserved for her. Guests smiled. Cameras clicked. A bridesmaid two spots down from me whispered something about the flowers.

Then came the moment every wedding guest waits for—the pause before the vows.

The officiant, a silver-haired minister with a booming voice, opened his leather-bound Bible and smiled at the congregation.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, his voice echoing off the stone walls of Alder Manor. “We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of Sutton Marie Hale and Declan James Montgomery...”

I tried to focus on his words, but a deep, sickening throb had taken root in my left heel. The fabric of my shoe was sticking to my skin. Every micro-movement sent a jolt of fire up my calf.

I shifted my weight slightly to the right, trying to relieve the pressure.

That was when the dark red stain began to seep through the white satin toe of the stiletto.

The bridesmaid to my left gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. She stared down at my foot, then looked up at me with wide, horrified eyes.

I stared straight ahead, locking my gaze onto a carved stone gargoyle on the far wall of the chapel.

The minister cleared his throat, continuing with the ceremony, but a ripple of whispers began to move through the first few rows of guests. Necks craned. Whispers grew louder.

Sutton noticed the commotion. She stopped looking at Declan, glanced down at the floor, and saw the spreading crimson stain on the white carpet.

Her eyes snapped up to mine.

Instead of panic or concern, her expression hardened into pure, unadulterated irritation. She thought I was doing it on purpose. She thought I was staging a melodramatic protest against her dress code, right there in the middle of her vows.

“Marin,” she hissed through a perfect, photo-ready smile, her voice carrying clearly beneath the minister’s cadence. “What are you doing?”

I turned my head just enough to look at her.

“My foot is bleeding, Sutton.”