The first sound was not her father’s voice.

It was the scrape of wood against polished church floor, sharp enough to cut through the chapel silence like a blade.

Then came the faint lemon-sugar smell drifting from the fellowship hall, the sweetness of waiting cake colliding with the hard metallic cold still clinging to the white uniform on her skin.

At the front of the church, Emily stood with one hand resting against the ribbon on her chest, her dress whites bright beneath the morning light. Behind her, the guests had gone so still that even a bracelet sliding down a woman’s wrist sounded loud.

Her father was on his feet now.

His mouth opened. His face had already gone pale. But the worst part was not the color leaving him.

It was the look in his eyes.

Not anger anymore. Not triumph.

Panic.

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