The sky was filled with crane-ships gliding on the breeze…
Emily woke up and stretched lazily, then paused, trying to remember what day it was. She turned her head to check the time, but her gaze landed on the cloud of white fabric hanging from her wardrobe door—too long to fit inside, so she’d left it out to avoid wrinkles. Instantly, memories crashed over her like a wave, stealing her breath.
When she’d tried the dress on in the boutique, for a fleeting moment, it had felt right. Edward was gone. But Philip was here—alive, attentive, successful, handsome. There was no going back now. In a few hours, she’d slip into that dress and ride to the registry office in a wedding car.
The thought made her shiver. She turned away from the dress, the very symbol of her betrayal.
Just yesterday, she’d said as much to her mum. Pale and worn thin from chemo and surgeries, her mother had watched her with sunken eyes.
“I get it, love. But Edward’s not coming back.”
“Missing doesn’t mean dead,” Emily shot back. “He could be a prisoner—they exchange them, don’t they?”
“Sweetheart, even if he comes back in one piece, what kind of state will he be in? Have you seen the news? If he’s physically unharmed, his mind might be shattered. Why put yourself through that? You’re only twenty-four. Life’s just starting. And you two weren’t even together that long.”
“Mum, I promised I’d wait for him. Marrying Philip would be a betrayal. What if Edward *does* come back? How could I face him?” Her voice cracked, tears choking her.
“Shh, don’t shout. He promised to come back too. War makes promises easy to give and hard to keep. If he were alive, don’t you think he’d have sent word?” Her mum pulled her close.
Emily buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and heard the ragged, papery sound of her breathing.
*Mum’s right. Philip’s done so much for us. Got her into the best clinic in London, paid for her treatment. Literally pulled her back from death’s door. She’s still on chemo. There’s hope now. But what if she relapses? We’ve no money left—Philip’s our only lifeline. I can’t say no… She wants grandchildren… I’m being selfish…*
She wiped her tears.
“Everything’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry.”
Her mother sighed, sneaking glances at Emily, occasionally crossing herself when she thought no one noticed.
“Don’t be daft. A man like Philip? You’d be mad to let him go,” her best friend Maisie had scolded, green with envy.
“Then *you* marry him. You’re prettier than me.”
Maisie shook her head and twirled a finger near her temple.
“I owe him, don’t you get it?” Emily had pressed. “And I’ll always owe him. It’s like voluntary prison. He can do whatever he wants, and I won’t dare say a word. Because I’m *ob-li-ga-ted*,” she’d spelled out. “That’s not a life—it’s a cage.”
“Don’t be silly. Give it a year, and if you can’t stand it, just divorce him. Easy.”
Those words had sealed it. But as the wedding neared, the weight on Emily’s heart only grew. *Oh, he’ll let me go, sure. After all the money he’s poured into us?* she thought bitterly. *And where would I run? Can’t leave Mum. It’d kill her. She’s finally putting on weight, eating again. It’s a trap. Just one word—just ‘alive’—and I’d call it off…*
Philip said he loved her. He hadn’t pushed intimacy, though a few times, she’d barely escaped his impatience. The Ritz was booked, VIP guests invited—even the Deputy Mayor was coming. She couldn’t humiliate Philip, leave him jilted at the altar. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d saved her mum…
Her mother peeked into the room.
“You’re not even up yet? Hair and makeup are here in ten. Get in the shower. Breakfast’s on the table.”
Emily sprang out of bed. The question—*what do I do?*—hung in the air, unanswered.
She showered quickly, then sat at the table with damp hair. To avoid upsetting her mum, she sipped her coffee and took a bite of toast, but it stuck in her throat.
“That’s it, I can’t. I feel sick.” She pushed the cup away.
“I didn’t eat before marrying your dad either. Nerves. Then I drank champagne and nearly made a fool of myself in front of everyone.” Her mum chuckled, then winced.
“What?”
“Stitches pulled.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” her mum said, heading to the hall. Emily’s heart hammered like a caged bird.
The hairstylist and makeup artist fussed over her. She didn’t care how she looked—until she saw herself in the mirror and gasped. Hollywood star Keira Knightley stared back.
She’d insisted on no updos or sky-high hair—just natural. And it worked. Her mum pressed her hands to her chest, eyes glistening.
Once the stylist left, Maisie helped her into the dress.
“It’s too early,” Emily protested.
“No, it’s not. What if it needs tweaks? Your mum said you’ve barely eaten.”
“Et tu, Maisie?” Emily sighed.
The doorbell rang again.
“Will your mum get it?” Maisie asked, lacing up the back of the dress.
Emily shrugged.
“Don’t move!” Maisie scolded.
Another ring. Maisie dashed to answer, leaving Emily’s back exposed. Emily listened. Scuffling. Maisie’s voice:
“Bad luck to see the bride!”
“I came early on purpose. It’s my wedding—I need to know she looks perfect.” Philip’s voice.
“She’s *beyond* perfect. Not happening.”
The silk dress slithered off her shoulders. Emily kept adjusting the straps. Then—silence.
After a moment, she lifted her skirt to avoid tripping and cracked the door open. Empty. Barefoot, she crept down the hall, the dress whispering against the floor.
She peeked into the kitchen—and froze.
Maisie’s back was to her. Philip’s hands—broad, elegant—rested on Maisie’s dark-blue dress like little wings.
*Why did I notice his hands first?*
They were kissing, swaying. Heat flooded Emily’s face. She stumbled back to her room, wedged a chair under the doorknob—just long enough.
She went to the window, tangled in fabric. Third floor. Narrow ledge. Asphalt below.
Wriggling out of the dress, she stepped over the frothy heap—no point being careful now.
“Emily, open up! Philip’s gone!” Maisie jiggled the knob. The chair wobbled.
“One second!” Emily rasped, yanking on jeans and a T-shirt.
*Can’t jump. Only way out’s the door.* She pulled the chair free.
Maisie shoved—Emily yanked the door open, sending Maisie stumbling.
Emily bolted.
On the landing, she nearly knocked over her mum chatting with a neighbor.
“Emily! Where—?”
If she stopped now, she’d lose her nerve. She flew down the stairs.
No sign of Philip’s car. Where to go? Then—a man in uniform at the far end of the courtyard.
She sprinted toward him, gravel biting her bare feet.
Up close—wrong face.
“You’re Emily? Recognised you. Edward showed me your photo,” he said, studying her.
“Edward? He’s alive?” The man’s face blurred. He caught her as her knees buckled.
“We served together. I got wounded. Before they shipped me to hospital, he gave me your address. Lost the note, but I remember it word for word.”
“Where’s Edward?”
Shouts behind her. Maisie and her mum running. Emily grabbed the soldier’s sleeve.
“Run!”
Later, in a quiet garden, he explained: at the hospital, he’d learned Edward was missing.
“Likely captured. That hairstyle… You getting married?” Disapproval laced his voice.
“Not anymore.” She told him everything.
“Maybe you should go back. For your mum?”
She shook her head so hard flowers tumbled from her hair.
He tried to tuck them back, but she ruffled her hair free.
“Stay with me, then? I came straight here. Haven’t even been home.”
“Your mum? Wife?”
“Just Mum. Never married. I’m Alex.”
“Go home, Alex. Your mum’sShe smiled at Alex, squeezed his hand, and whispered, “Let’s go home together.”
