The hushed whispers spread like wildfire through the grand ballroom, each murmur a fresh stab to Mikaella's already fractured heart. “Mick, the guests are getting impatient! They want to leave and so should we!” her mother whispered, nudging her arm, a desperate plea to acknowledge the stark reality.

“Five more minutes, mom. He’ll be here,” Mikaella insisted, her eyes glued to the elevator doors, a fragile hope clinging to the belief that any second, they would part and her groom, Owen, would burst through.

Five minutes stretched to ten, then to a grueling half-hour. No sign. The judge muttered impatiently, the guests’ whispers grew louder, and the tight clutch on her bouquet felt less like a grip of anticipation and more like a desperate anchor against the rising tide of humiliation. The realization hit her, a cold, hard truth: she had been left at the altar. Her heart hammered, tears burned, and her legs threatened to give way under the weight of it all.

She looked down at her simple, yet costly, white dress, the thong she wore beneath it, chosen for a honeymoon that would never be. The glares, the pity, the spite – it was too much. Clutching the hem of her dress, she stormed out, pushing the elevator button with a furious jab. The doors parted, and she rushed in, her eyes cast down, desperate to avoid any further scrutiny. Once inside, the tears, held back for too long, finally cascaded down her cheeks, streaking mascara across her face and staining her pristine gown. She sobbed, slamming the bouquet against the elevator wall. A sudden throat-clearing jolted her. She looked up, from glistening black shoes to a towering figure clad in a tailored clay suit. Mortified, she scrambled to her feet, desperately trying to appear unfazed.