**Diary Entry**
The cranes-ships soar across the sky…
Emily woke up and stretched blissfully. Then she 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 lace draped over the wardrobe door—too long to fit inside, so she’d hung it there to avoid creases. Memories crashed over her like a wave, stealing her breath.
When she’d tried the dress on in the boutique, it felt right for a fleeting second. James was gone. And Phillip was here—alive, attentive, successful, handsome. Nothing could change now. In a few hours, she’d wear that dress and ride in a bridal car to the registry office.
Emily shuddered at the thought. She turned away from the dress—the symbol of her betrayal.
She’d told her mum exactly that yesterday. Pale, worn down by chemo and surgeries, her mother had watched her with hollow eyes.
“I understand, love. But James isn’t coming back.”
“He’s missing, not dead,” Emily snapped. “Prisoners get exchanged. He could still be alive.”
“Sweetheart, even if he comes back in one piece, what state will he be in? Have you seen the news? If he’s physically unharmed, his mind won’t be. Why put yourself through that? You’re only twenty-four. Life’s just beginning. And you two hadn’t been together long.”
“Mum, I promised I’d wait for him. Marrying Phillip means betraying him. What if he comes back? How could I face him?” Emily’s voice cracked, tears choking her.
“Hush, don’t shout. He promised to come back too. War makes promises easy to give, hard to keep. If he were alive, wouldn’t he have sent word?” Her mother pulled her close.
Emily rested her head on her mum’s shoulder, listening to her laboured breathing, her lungs crackling like crumpled paper.
*Mum’s right. Phillip’s done so much for us. Got her into the best clinic in London, paid for her treatment. He pulled her back from death’s door—literally. She’s still on chemo. There’s hope. But if she relapses? We’ve no money. Phillip’s the only safety net. I can’t refuse… She dreams of grandchildren… And I’m just selfish, thinking of myself…*
Emily wiped her tears.
“It’ll be alright, Mum. Don’t worry.”
Her mother sighed, sneaking glances at her, fingers subtly tracing the sign of the cross over Emily when she thought she wasn’t looking.
“Don’t be daft. A man like Phillip? You hold onto him with both hands,” her friend Sophie had scolded, envy undisguised.
“Then *you* hold onto him. You’re prettier than me.” Sophie shook her head, tapping her temple. “I owe him, don’t you get it?” Emily had argued. “I’ll always owe him. It’s like a gilded cage. He can do as he pleases, and I won’t dare complain. Because I’m *obligated*,” she’d spelled out. “This isn’t living. It’s a prison.”
“You’re silly. Give it time. If you can’t stand it, just divorce him. Simple,” Sophie had said breezily.
Those words had sealed it. But the closer the wedding came, the heavier Emily’s heart grew. *As if he’d ever let me go. After all the money he’s poured into us?* she thought bitterly. *And where would I run? I can’t leave Mum. It’d kill her. She’s just starting to eat again. This is a trap. If only he’d send one word—‘alive’—I’d call it off.*
Phillip claimed to love her. He hadn’t pushed for intimacy, though a few times Emily had barely escaped his hunger. The posh restaurant was booked. Important guests invited—the Deputy Mayor would be there. She couldn’t humiliate Phillip, make him the jilted groom. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d saved her mum.
A knock at the door.
“Emily? Up yet? The stylist’s coming in ten. Shower and eat. Breakfast’s ready.”
She scrambled out of bed. The question—*what do I do?*—hung in the air, unanswered, like a draft slipping through a crack.
She washed quickly, hair dripping as she forced down coffee and toast. It lodged in her throat.
“Can’t eat. I feel sick.” She pushed the plate away.
“I didn’t eat before marrying your dad either. Nerves. Then I drank champagne and nearly made a fool of myself.” Her mum laughed, then winced.
“What?” Emily tensed.
“Stitches pulled.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.” Her mum shuffled out. Emily’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
Chaos followed—hair, makeup. She didn’t care how she looked. But when she finally faced the mirror, she gasped. Staring back was a Hollywood star, Sophie Turner.
She’d insisted on natural styling—no teased updos. She’d chosen right. Her mum clasped her hands, eyes shining.
The stylist left. Sophie helped her into the dress.
“Too early,” Emily protested.
“It’s not. What if it needs adjusting? Your mum said you’re not eating.”
“Not you too,” Emily sighed.
The doorbell again.
“Should your mum get it?” Sophie asked, wrestling with the laces.
Emily shrugged.
“Don’t move!” Sophie barked.
Another ring. Sophie dashed to answer, leaving Emily’s back exposed. The delicate silk slipped from her shoulders. Then—silence.
Emily waited. Lifted her hem to avoid tripping, cracked the door. Empty. She tiptoed out. The dress whispered against the floor.
Sophie stood in the kitchen, back turned. Golden curls cascaded down. Phillip’s hands—elegant, pale—gripped her waist like wings.
Why had she noticed his hands? They swayed, locked in a kiss. Heat surged up Emily’s neck. She stumbled back, jammed a chair under the doorknob.
The window—third floor. Too narrow to climb out. Paving stones below.
She wrestled free of the dress. It pooled at her feet. She stepped over it, crushing the lace.
“Emily, open up! Phillip’s gone!” Sophie jiggled the knob. The chair wobbled.
“One second!” Emily rasped, yanking on jeans and a T-shirt.
If she couldn’t jump, the door was her only exit. She tugged the chair free—Sophie burst in, nearly face-planting.
Emily darted past her, paused only to kick off her heels. No time. Barefoot, she flew down the stairs.
On the second-floor landing, she nearly bowled over her mum chatting with a neighbour.
“Emily! Where are you—?”
If she stopped, she’d lose her nerve. She sprinted on. No sign of Phillip’s car. Where to go?
Then she saw him—a soldier, crossing the courtyard. She ran toward him. Pebbles bit her feet.
“You’re Emily?” He studied her. “James showed me your photo.”
“James? He’s alive?” The man blurred before her. He caught her before she fell.
“We served together. I got wounded. Before I was shipped home, he gave me your address. I lost the note, but I remember.”
“Where’s James?” She couldn’t look away.
Shouting behind her. Sophie. Her mum. Emily grabbed his sleeve.
“Run!”
Later, in a quiet park, he told her James was missing—likely captured.
“That hairstyle… You’re getting married?” Disapproval tinged his voice.
“Not anymore.” She confessed everything.
“Maybe go back? For your mum?”
She shook her head, dislodging flowers from her hair.
“Come with me then. I was headed to you anyway. Haven’t even been home yet.”
“Your mum? Wife?”
“Just Mum. Never married. I’m Daniel.”
“Go home, Daniel. Your mum’s waited long enough. So has mine.”
She walked away, wincing at the gravel.
At home, her mum hugged her. “Silly girl. I’m sorry. I thought I was helping.”
“The dress?”
“Oh—Phillip came back, saw you’d gone. Sophie squeezed into it. Hilarious. They left together. Poor lad. He’s not a bad man.”
Emily slid off the engagement ring.
“Give it here. I’ll hide it. You can return it later.”
Emily touched her mum’s palm. Warm.
“Forgive me.”
“The soldier—was there news of James?”
“He thinks he’s dead or a prisoner.” They talked deep into the night.
Meanwhile, the wedding went on. Phillip and Sophie stopped at a boutique, bought a new dress. The guests celebrated.
The next day, DanielTwo years later, after her mother’s passing, Emily married Daniel in a quiet ceremony—no white dress, no fanfare, just the promise of a future built on honesty, while far away in a grand house by the Thames, Phillip and Sophie raised their twins, neither ever speaking of the girl who had fled.
