Chapter 1: The Dress, The Fall

On our wedding day, my wife stood on the rooftop in a pure white wedding dress.

The sky was painted with streaks of gold and pink, the city below buzzing with life, completely unaware of the devastation unfolding above. She was crying as she asked me, "If I jumped, do you think any of them would even care? Would they feel sorry at all?"

I answered, "They won’t feel guilty, but I’ll make them pay. I’ll make sure every single one of them is held accountable. If you still love me, if you can’t stand the thought of me doing something drastic, then don’t jump—let me take care of you for the rest of your life."

I wanted to reach out, but her gaze drifted toward the horizon, far away from me and everything that had broken her. My own heartbeat thundered in the heavy silence, helplessness throbbing sharp in my chest.

She wiped her tears, forcing a faint smile. "I’m sorry, but I can’t hold on any longer. Every day I’m alive, I just want it all to end."

Her words pressed down on us like the sticky weight of summer humidity. I wanted to say a hundred things—to promise new tomorrows, to resurrect our laughter—but all I could do was stand there, hands trembling at my sides.

I looked at her, my heart aching.

I love her.

But if she jumps, I’ll understand.

The wind picked up, rustling the hem of her dress. I wanted to scream, but the sound died in my throat. Sometimes loving someone means letting them go, even when it rips you apart.

1

That day, I went with my wife to try on wedding dresses. The very first dress looked gorgeous on her—it made my heart race just to see her. If there hadn’t been so many people in the store, I would’ve picked her up and kissed her right there.

Sunlight filtered through the big front windows of Bella's Bridal. The air smelled faintly of steamed coffee and fresh-cut flowers, the kind of scent that makes you believe in happy endings. Crystals in her veil sparkled as she spun, her cheeks flushed with shy happiness, and for a second, the world shrank to just us—her twirling in front of the mirror, me grinning like an idiot.

She asked me, a little shyly, if she looked pretty.

A little boy, who’d come in with some adults, overheard and immediately shouted, "Wow, so ugly!"

The kid’s voice cut through the air like a slap. He was hanging around the display of pearl-studded heels, hair a mess, one sneaker untied. His mom just scrolled through her phone, barely glancing up—too busy checking Facebook to notice her kid being a brat.

My wife was upset. I quickly reassured her, telling her she was as beautiful as a princess and not to listen to the kid’s nonsense.

Trying to lighten the mood, I winked at her reflection. "You’re as pretty as Elsa at the Oscars, babe. Ignore that little gremlin. He probably thinks Paw Patrol is high fashion."

She finally smiled, and teased, "Then why don’t you hurry up and buy your princess an iced coffee? It’s so hot wearing this wedding dress."

I agreed, feeling a little silly, and ran out to get her coffee from the Starbucks next door.

She waved at me through the glass as I left, rolling her eyes with a grin, and I jogged past the parked cars, humming with excitement. Our whole life felt ahead of us, bright and simple as that iced coffee I ordered at the counter.

But because I left, her whole life was ruined.

When I got back with the coffee, I saw a crowd gathered at the entrance of the bridal shop, a bunch of people filming with their phones.

A knot of anxiety twisted in my gut. It was the kind of crowd you only see when something has gone terribly wrong. A couple of teenagers perched on the curb, recording with TikTok already open, and I heard the buzz of voices before I saw what was happening.

Confused, I squeezed through the crowd and saw my wife, disheveled, lying on the floor.

Her hair was tangled, mascara streaking her cheeks. The pristine white dress I'd left her in was bunched awkwardly around her hips, and her face was frozen in shock and humiliation.

My stomach dropped. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion—helpless, sick, furious all at once.

The girl I always treated like a princess was being pinned down by a woman.

The little boy from earlier stood next to her, raising his hand to slap her.

When his hand landed on my wife’s face, the woman even praised him, "Good job, sweetie, hit her back."

The sound was a sharp crack, unnatural in a bridal store. Some people gasped, but no one moved to help. The woman pinning my wife down looked smug, like she was teaching her kid a lesson in public.

My wife couldn’t even defend herself. She just tried to cover her chest with both hands, crying, "Don’t record, please don’t record me…"

But the bystanders just watched, their phones pointed at her, loving the drama. Someone even shouted, "Worldstar!" like it was all just a viral moment, not a real person breaking.

I lost control, grabbed a phone that was recording and smashed it, then rushed into the store, shoved the woman away, and held my wife tightly.

I heard angry shouts behind me, someone yelling about their phone, but I didn’t care. All I could think was how small she felt in my arms, how she clung to me like she was drowning. The scent of her perfume was mixed with panic and sweat.

She trembled in my arms, clutching my clothes, sobbing uncontrollably.

Her fingers dug into my back, her body shaking so hard I thought she might break. I stroked her hair, whispering, "I’m here, baby. I’m here."

Seeing her like that, my heart felt like it was being torn apart.

I quickly took off my jacket and wrapped it around her, asking what had happened, but she just shook and cried, unable to say a word, gripping my shirt like it was her lifeline.

Her breaths came out in ragged gasps, and I pressed my cheek to her temple, trying to shield her from the phones still pointed our way. I kept my voice low and steady, desperate to anchor her.

In the end, it was the saleswoman from the bridal shop who explained.

After I left, my wife had taken off her wedding dress to try on a second one.

That little boy’s aunt was also there to try on dresses. The aunt was having her makeup done, the mother was chatting with her, and no one was watching the kid, who was running wild in the store.

You could tell the staff was used to chaos, but even they looked shaken now. The saleswoman's hands were shaking as she spoke, glancing at the crowd outside like she expected them to start a riot.

That brat pulled open my wife’s changing room curtain.

Many bridal shops, for better lighting, set up changing areas in the main hall. When the curtain was yanked open, everyone in the store saw her undressed.

You could feel the collective breath in the shop stop, as if time froze for a split second. My wife’s scream echoed off the walls, and the kid just stood there, wide-eyed and clueless.

Ashamed and furious, she instinctively slapped the child.

The sound of her slap must have rung out loud—everyone in the place went silent for a heartbeat.

The child’s guardian was enraged, scolding my wife for being shameless and for hitting a child. She rushed over, pinned my wife to the ground, and told the child not to be afraid, to hit back hard if bullied.

The woman’s voice was icy, her grip merciless. She kept barking at the little boy, like this was some twisted lesson in toughness.

She attacked with particular cruelty. To keep my wife from fighting back, she deliberately tore at her clothes, using humiliation as a weapon to inflict the deepest wounds.

I felt sick listening to the details, my fists clenching as the saleswoman’s voice shook. This wasn’t just bullying—it was meant to scar, to crush every ounce of dignity my wife had left.