Two years after the wedding that never happened, you stood in another room full of flowers.
This time, there was no altar.
No priest asking you to promise your life away.
No groom squeezing your hand too hard.
It was the grand opening of the second White Rose building, this one in Detroit.
You wore a white dress by choice.
Simple.
Soft.
Yours.
Before the doors opened, you stood alone in the bathroom mirror and looked at your face.
No heavy foundation.
No hidden bruise.
No painted lie.
Just you.
A woman with scars.
A woman with a past.
A woman who had once collapsed before saying “I do” and had risen into a life no one at that wedding could have imagined.
Your phone buzzed.
A message from your mother:
“I’m proud of you. Not because you survived quietly. Because you refused to.”
Then one from your father:
“I saw the news. Your building is beautiful. So are you when you’re free.”
You cried a little.
Then fixed your lipstick because crying no longer meant falling apart.
When you stepped outside, Damian was waiting in the hallway.
He looked at your dress.
His breath caught.
You noticed.
