For three months, I had been living with grief.
Every time someone told me, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I nodded politely, even though a part of me still couldn’t accept that Adrian was gone.
I had cried at his funeral.
I had stood beside his family while they mourned him.
I had tried to continue working, even when ordinary things reminded me of him.
Then, one afternoon, everything I believed about those three months changed.
Because Adrian wasn’t dead.
He was upstairs.
Alive.
And apparently, he was getting married.
I stood inside the reception hall surrounded by hundreds of white flowers, trying to understand what I was seeing.
Earlier that day, I had been hired to arrange the floral decorations for the wedding. I had no idea whose wedding it was.
Then I recognized the name.
Adrian.
My Adrian.
The man I had been told was dead.
The flowers surrounding me made the situation even more painful.
White roses.
Gardenias.
Baby’s breath.
They were the exact flowers Adrian and I had once chosen for our own wedding.
I stared at my reflection in a nearby mirror.
My hands were shaking.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “If this is really happening, I’m going to find out why.”
I returned to the reception hall and tried to act normally.
The coordinator rushed toward me.
“There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere.”
“Sorry,” I replied.
“Everything okay?”
