The night before our wedding, Graham brought me to our local tabletop lounge for an endgame Werewolf session. My best friend, Carly, was sitting directly across from us.

In round one, I was taken out on the very first night. Graham had drawn the Witch card—the one role with the power to resurrect a victim with a single drop of healing potion.

He didn’t lift a finger. When the moderator signaled my death, he gave me an easy, dismissive smirk. "It’s just a game, Leah.

Don't be a sore loser." In the very next round, the wolves targeted Carly. Graham didn’t even wait for the moderator to finish reading the prompt.

He slammed his card down, burning his one and only antidote without a second thought. The table broke into a chorus of knowing chuckles and whistles. "Classic Graham.

His cure only ever works for Carly." That was the moment I learned they had been an exclusive tournament duo for three entire years.

Before the session wrapped, the house host drew a random legacy card from their vintage vault—a playful tradition where players leave behind their final words.

The note pulled under the spotlight had been penned by Graham.

It was addressed to Carly. "No matter who I end up marrying, you’re the only person I’ll ever use my potion on." The date scrawled at the bottom was November sixteenth.

The exact afternoon he had proposed to me. Graham snatched the card away, his brow furrowing as he met my gaze. "It was a forfeit penalty from an old tournament.

You’re not seriously taking it to heart, are you?" I held his stare, swallowed the acid rising in my throat, and nodded.

Then I took the custom platinum band I was supposed to slide onto his finger tomorrow and dropped it into the vault box. "You’re right," I said quietly. "It’s just a game." He didn't know that directly beneath the ring sat a formal, signed contract cancellation for our caterer and venue.

I forfeited this hand. And for the rest of my life, I was done playing their game. … Graham stepped in front of me, blocking the exit. "Our wedding is tomorrow morning, Leah.

Do you really have to kill the vibe right now?" He reached out, slipping my coat off the back of my chair and draping it over my arm.

The gesture was so casual, so practiced, that for a split second, it almost masked the poison beneath it. As if that note were nothing more than an innocent punchline.

Carly approached us, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Leah, I’m so sorry," she whispered, twisting her silver rings. "We lost a match that season, and the table dared him to write something sentimental to his partner.

He was just checking a box to get them off his back." Graham cut her off before she could finish. "You don't owe her an explanation, Carly." He turned to me, an expression of weary indulgence in his eyes—the same look he gave me whenever he thought I was making a mountain out of a molehill. "You two have known each other since freshman year.

You know who she is. Why are you acting like this?" Of course I knew who she was.

When Carly went through that brutal breakup in college, I was the one who slept on her floor for two weeks so she wouldn't swallow a bottle of sleeping pills.

When she confessed she was too socially anxious to attend game nights alone, I was the one who pulled Graham into her orbit. "Don't worry," he had murmured back then, tousling my hair in the campus quad. "I’ll look out for her for you." And he had looked out for her.

Beautifully. So well that they developed secret nonverbal cues, entered underground tournaments, and built a threeyear partnership I had been completely blind to.

A guy at the end of the table tried to smooth things over with an awkward laugh. "Hey, don't read into it, man. Graham and Carly won the city championship two years ago.

They’re basically legends around here." I slowly looked up at Graham. "You played in the city championship?" Carly’s face froze. "Just once.

You were hospitalized with severe gastritis that weekend. Graham was going to drop out, but I couldn't find a sub on two hours' notice..." Two years ago. My twentyfourth birthday.

I had spent eight hours alone in an urgentcare bay with an IV needle taped into the back of my hand, watching the saline drip drop by drop.

Graham had texted saying a server went down at the firm and he had to work through the night.

At two in the morning, he had shown up at my apartment carrying a single slice of strawberry shortcake in a plain white bakery box.

I had been so moved that he remembered my favorite cake despite his work crisis that I cried into his chest for twenty minutes.

Now, my eyes drifted to the gallery wall near the parlor counter. Framed in the center was their victory portrait.

Carly was beaming, hoisting a brass trophy, and right there on the table beside her sat an open box from that very same boutique patisserie.

My birthday treat hadn't been a gesture of devotion. It was a leftover scrap from their victory party.

Graham tracked my gaze, and for the first time tonight, a flicker of guilt broke through his composed exterior. "That was two years ago, Leah.

What’s the point of dredging up ancient history?" I pointed directly at the legacy slip he still clutched in his hand. "What about the day you asked me to marry you?

You told me you had an emergency client dinner. Did you spend that night playing tournaments with her too?" He hesitated, his jaw tightening. "I left after I proposed to you.

It didn't take away from our moment." He delivered it with utter conviction.

As if putting a ring on my left hand gave him an open license to give his soul to someone else the second he walked out the door.

A single tear rolled down Carly’s cheek. "Leah, blame me.

It’s all my fault." Graham immediately stepped between us, shielding her. "It has nothing to do with you." He turned back to me, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders, his voice lowering into a soothing, patronizing hush. "I’m marrying you tomorrow.

Keep the game and real life separate." I stared at him, my voice completely flat. "Okay." I didn't argue. There was no point.

He honestly believed that handing me the legal title of wife granted him the moral authority to reserve all his devotion for another woman.

Before we left, I slipped away to the counter and handed the vault key to the floor manager. "Keep the legacy box locked until ten tomorrow morning," I said evenly. "No matter what’s happening, hand it directly to Graham at ten sharp." The manager gave me a curious look. "A wedding surprise?" I thought about the platinum band and the breachofcontract receipt tucked beneath it. "You could say that," I murmured. "Though I doubt he’ll like it." A cold drizzle was falling over the city when we stepped out onto the pavement.

The second Carly hit the curb, Graham unspooled his wool scarf and wrapped it snugly around her throat. "Your fever only broke yesterday," he chided gently. "Don't be careless." Only then did he glance back and realize I had no umbrella, no scarf, nothing to shield me from the biting dampness.

He dug into his pocket and offered me his key fob. "Go sit in the car. The heater’s running." I didn't take it.

Carly immediately began unwinding the scarf. "Leah, here, take it—" Graham caught her wrist, holding the wool in place. "Her immune system isn't fragile like yours." He popped open the lone umbrella he had brought, tucking Carly securely under its arc, and guided her toward the parking structure at a measured pace.

I didn't wait. I stepped out from under the awning and ran through the rain alone. By the time I slid into the back seat, the hem of my dress was soaked through.

Carly opened the front passenger door as if by reflex.

The memoryseat preset immediately hummed, sliding back to her exact preferred angle, and the Bluetooth automatically paired with her phone.

A voice memo began playing over the dashboard speakers—Graham’s unmistakable baritone. "Focus on keeping Carly alive this round.

Even if she draws wolf, we protect her until the final vote." Carly scrambled to kill the audio, her face flushing crimson. "Old scrimmage recordings.

Please don't read into it." The back seat was overflowing with our wedding welcome bags, satin ribbons, and favor boxes.

I was pressed awkwardly against the passengerside door, clutching my damp bridal hairpiece to my chest to keep it from getting crushed.

Graham caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "She gets motion sickness, Leah.

Is sitting in the back for fifteen minutes really the end of the world?" I reached up, using a dry corner of my sleeve to wipe the rain from the fauxpearl pins. "It’s fine." My lack of a blowup seemed to unsettle him more than an argument would have.

His brow pinched. "Don't use that tone." When we pulled up to our new brownstone, Carly didn't wait for us.

She walked straight to the digital lock and punched in the sixdigit code. Graham’s birthday.

She opened the bottom drawer of the entry bench, pulled out a pair of gray fleece slippers, and walked down the hall toward the guest room next to our master suite with practiced ease.

I stood in the doorway of the home that was supposed to be mine tomorrow, feeling like a trespassing stranger. "Why does she have the door code?" I asked.

Graham carried her duffel bag inside, not bothering to look back. "We used to analyze gameplay late into the night.

She crashed here a few times." "You swore no one had stayed here after the renovations wrapped." He stopped, finally turning around. "She’s your best friend, Leah.

Since when is she an outsider?" A dull thud echoed from the guest room, followed by the sound of an antique drawer sliding open. I rushed in.

Carly was standing by the walnut bookcase, holding an old wooden keepsake box in both hands.

Inside was the limitededition, outofprint Werewolf deck my older sister, Grace, had left me before she died. Tucked on top was the Bodyguard card.

On the back, Grace’s cursive remained clear and steady: "To my Leah: May you find someone who chooses to guard you, every single night." "Who told you to touch that?" My voice was sharp, cutting through the silence.

Carly startled, stumbling backward into the edge of the nightstand.

The halffull glass of cabernet she was holding tipped over, splashing thick, dark red across the unvarnished wood and directly onto the cards. Panic surged through me.

I snatched the Bodyguard card from the puddle, but the red wine was already bleeding into the porous paper, dissolving the ink into a murky violet smear.

Carly lunged forward with a tissue. "I’m sorry, let me wipe it—" Her acrylic nail snagged the waterlogged edge. "Rip." The card tore clean down the center.

The air vanished from my lungs. A deafening ringing filled my ears. Without thinking, I shoved her back.

Carly lost her footing, her hip slamming into the console table, and her palm came down hard on the shattered wine glass. Crimson bloomed against the hardwood floor.

Graham burst into the room.

The moment he took in the scene, his eyes locked onto the blood dripping from her fingers. "What happened?" He pulled Carly into his arms, instantly pressing a wad of tissues against her lacerated palm.

Carly sobbed, shaking her head against his shoulder. "Don't be mad at Leah... it was my fault.

I shouldn't have touched Grace’s things." I stood there, trembling so violently I could barely keep the two halves of the card aligned in my palms. "Graham," I choked out, my voice cracking. "You promised me.

You promised no one would ever touch this box." His eyes flicked to the torn card for a split second.

The year Grace died of leukemia, he was the one who sat beside me on the floor of my childhood bedroom, watching me seal those cards away one by one.

He knew that deck was the last physical piece of her I had left in this world. Then Carly let out a sharp, ragged gasp of pain.

Whatever hesitation had flickered in Graham's eyes vanished entirely. "We need an ER," he said, scooping Carly into his arms and brushing past me without looking back. "It’s a deck of cards, Leah.

It can be repaired. If she severed a tendon, how is she supposed to stand by your side tomorrow?" The front door slammed shut.

The silence that followed was suffocating, punctuated only by the smell of spilled wine and broken glass.

I sank onto the floor, pulling the torn pieces of the Bodyguard card together against my chest. The wine had erased almost the entire sentence.

All that remained was the final fragment: "...guard her." The man I was supposed to marry tomorrow possessed every resource a woman could ask for. He had the cure.

He had the umbrella. He had the capacity to shelter someone through any storm. He had simply never chosen to spend it on me. At one in the morning, Graham returned with Carly.

She had three stitches across her palm.

He set a fresh mug of warm tea on her bedside table, meticulously arranged her antibiotic ointment and sterile gauze, and gently closed her door before walking into the living room.

I was still sitting on the floor, the torn card pressed between two heavy glass coasters in a pathetic attempt to flatten the edges.

Graham walked over and crouched beside me. "I called an archivist in the city," he said, his tone deliberately measured. "He specializes in paper restoration.

As soon as the reception wraps tomorrow, he’ll take a look at it." I looked at him, my voice completely hollow. "Can he restore the handwriting?

Can he give me Grace’s words back?" He went quiet. "It’s an object, Leah.

If Grace were here, she wouldn't want you hurting someone you love over a piece of cardboard." A dry, bitter laugh caught in my throat.

It was remarkable how easily he could grant forgiveness on behalf of the dead. Carly appeared in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe.

A fresh bandage was wrapped around her hand, faintly pink at the center. "Leah...

I’m dropping out of the bridal party," she said, her voice shaking. "Someone posted a clip from the parlor session online.

People are already leaving nasty comments, asking why I’ve been your fiancé's tournament partner for three years.

If I stand at your altar tomorrow, it’s going to ruin everything." Her phone buzzed relentlessly. Carly was an indie gaming streamer on the verge of signing a major agency contract.

If the community branded her as a homewrecker, her career would be over before it started.

She stared at the vitriol flooding her mentions, her chest heaving. "I didn't take anything from you.

Why are they saying this about me?" Graham snatched her phone, turned the screen off, and laid it face down.

Then he pulled out his own phone, tapped through his notes app, and held a draft in front of my face. "Post a video," he commanded. "Say that the note and the tournament duo were all inside jokes and brand strategy.

Tell them you knew about our games from day one." I kept my hands resting on my knees. "I didn't know." Graham’s patience snapped. "What difference does that make right now?

Carly took a week off to help with our wedding, and now her hand is stitched up because of you.

She cannot have her reputation dragged through the mud." I pointed toward the torn card on the floor. "She destroyed the last thing my sister gave me.

You know what that card means to me, and you’re asking me to lie to the internet to protect her?" The apartment fell dead silent.

Graham looked down at me, his eyes clouded with utter exhaustion. "I already told you I’ll fix the card.

But this online mob won't wait." "I’m not making the video." Tears spilled over Carly’s lashes. "Forget it, Graham. After tomorrow, you two are family.

I’m just an outsider." She grabbed her coat with her uninjured hand and made for the door.

Graham caught her arm, spinning her back, before turning on me with eyes colder than I had ever seen them. "If you can't even offer this much grace, Leah, maybe we should put the wedding on hold." I stared at him. "You’re threatening to cancel our wedding to force me to cover for her?" "I’m trying to handle a crisis," he snapped, shoving the phone against my chest. "Stop making it feel like marrying you is an exhausting chore." When the recording light flickered on, I didn't push back.

Not because I feared losing him. But because I finally understood that I needed him to believe everything was fine so he wouldn't notice I was already gone.

I looked into the lens and read the script word for word. "Graham and Carly have been tournament partners for years.

The legacy card and the ingame strategies were strictly part of their dynamic.

I was fully aware, and there are no hard feelings." Once the video was posted, the comments began to soften. Graham visibly exhaled.

He stepped toward me, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead. "Tomorrow morning at eight, I’ll take you to Grace’s grave like we planned.

Then we’ll head straight to the venue." I turned my head slightly, letting his lips graze my temple instead. He didn't notice. He just assumed I was still sulking.

The moment he walked Carly back to the guest room, I opened my laptop, clicked on the internal transfer offer from my company’s Seattle branch, and hit "Accept".

Then I emailed our wedding coordinator, authorized the immediate cancellation of the ceremony, and wired the termination fees in full.

The coordinator called my cell within thirty seconds, her voice frantic. "Does Graham know about this?" "No." "When should we notify him?" I looked up at the wall clock. "Tomorrow at ten." My flight to Seattle was scheduled for 9:40 AM.

Before that, I would visit Grace’s grave, exactly as planned. I wasn't waiting for Graham to come to his senses. His presence wouldn't change my mind.

But after seven years, I felt I owed our past a proper, quiet goodbye. If he showed up, I would tell him to his face. If he didn't, the legacy box would speak for me.

At 7:30 AM, I dressed in a simple black linen dress. My single suitcase was already stowed in the trunk of the town car waiting down the block.

The ruined Bodyguard card was sealed inside a crisp white envelope—Grace’s favorite color. At eight sharp, Graham stepped out of the guest room.

He was already wearing his bespoke charcoal tuxedo, holding a paper cup of soy milk. "Drink this," he murmured, handing it to me. "We have to hit the cemetery and get you into hair and makeup right after.

You can't let your gastritis flare up today." He remembered my sensitive stomach. He remembered the anniversary of my sister's passing.

He remembered a thousand tiny, domestic details about my life. Yet every time life forced him to hold only one person above the surface, his hands let go of me.

We had barely reached the elevator bank when his phone rang. It was Carly’s manager.

Whatever was said on the other end drained the color from Graham’s face. "When did she leave?" he demanded. He hung up and immediately mashed the button for the underground garage.

I placed my hand against the closing elevator door, keeping it open. "What happened to Carly?" "She saw some leftover hate comments online," Graham said, his breath hitching. "She took her streaming kit back to the game lounge.

She’s going to leak all their private chats and announce her retirement from the community." He stepped inside.

I stayed rooted to the hallway floor. "You promised to come with me to see Grace." "We can visit the cemetery any day, Leah," he said, reaching out to grab my wrist. "If she goes live, her entire life is ruined." I pulled my arm back, stepping out of his reach. "My ride leaves for the airport at nine," I said, my voice steady and clear. "If you walk away with her right now, we are never seeing each other again." Graham blinked, stunned.

It was the first time in seven years I had drawn a line so absolute.

Then his brow furrowed in irritation. "Don't give me ultimatums," he said, shaking his head. "There are three hundred guests arriving at the hotel in three hours.

Where could you possibly go?" The elevator chime rang, warning that the doors were about to force shut. I looked at him one last time. "Graham.

Are you staying?" He held my gaze for two beats, then reached forward and pressed the doorclose button. "I’ll fix this and meet you at the cemetery," he said through the narrowing gap. "We won't be late for our own wedding." The steel doors sealed shut.

He honestly believed I would put on that white lace gown and wait for him at the altar.

I stood in the corridor, watching the floor indicator drop, number by number, until it hit ground zero. At 8:20 AM, I knelt alone beside Grace’s headstone.

I laid the white envelope containing the torn Bodyguard card against the polished granite. "I’m sorry, Grace," I whispered. "You wanted me to find someone who would guard me every single night.

I chose the wrong person." A morning breeze rustled the nearby pines, lifting the flap of the envelope. I left it there. At 8:50 AM, the car drove me to the terminal.

Across town, Graham burst into the tabletop lounge. Carly was already setting up her tripod.

He confiscated her phone, contacted her platform reps to kill the stream, and spent the next hour smoothing things over with her sponsors.

His phone buzzed three times with calls from my coordinator. He declined every single one. He sent a single, hasty text: "Have Leah head to the bridal suite.

I’m on my way." At 9:40 AM, my plane lifted into the overcast sky. At 10:00 AM, the lounge manager arrived at the grand ballroom with the legacy box. Graham had still not arrived.

At 10:20 AM, Graham finally hurried through the gilded double doors, holding Carly by the elbow. The guests were seated in awkward, murmuring clusters.

The string quartet sat with their instruments resting on their laps. There was no music.

Graham set the cold soy milk on the vanity outside the bridal suite and pulled the coordinator aside. "Tell Leah to drop the attitude. Get her into the dress.

We’ll push the processional by thirty minutes." The coordinator didn't move. "Mr. Barrett, the wedding has been cancelled." Graham’s face darkened. "Cancelled?

On whose authority?" The lounge manager stepped forward, setting the vintage wooden box on the marble table. Graham flipped the latch.

Inside lay his platinum wedding band, his set of brownstone keys, and the signed cancellation contract dated the night before.

Carly whispered beside him, her voice trembling. "She’s just trying to scare you, Graham. Go talk to her." Graham slammed the box shut. "She’s throwing a tantrum.

I’m going home to get her." When he pushed through the front door of our brownstone, the entryway lamp was still burning. He walked into the bedroom. Half the closet was empty.

My passport, my work laptop, my coats, my shoes—everything was gone. In the master bath, my toothbrush was missing. In the entryway, only his leather loafers remained.

Panic finally clawed its way into his throat.

He dialed my number over and over again. "The number you have dialed is currently unavailable." His assistant called through on the other line. "Graham, we tracked her itinerary.

Leah boarded a 9:40 AM flight to Seattle." Graham’s hand gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white. "When does she land back in town?

What’s her return flight?" The line went silent for three excruciating seconds. "There is no return flight, Graham. It was a oneway ticket."