"Jackson, the photographer wants to discuss the bouquet positioning," my assistant calls from across the bridal suite, but I'm already distracted by Ophelia's reflection in the ornate mirror.

She looks ethereal in the afternoon light, even with the toll the chemotherapy has taken. Her wedding dress, a vintage ivory silk we found at that boutique in the city, drapes perfectly over her diminished frame. The headpiece catches the light filtering through the hotel windows, and for a moment, I forget about everything else—the stress of the preparations, the guilt gnawing at my conscience about leaving Elizabeth and Dakota to fend for themselves today.

"You look beautiful," I murmur, adjusting the delicate lace at her shoulder. "Are you feeling alright? We can postpone if you need to rest."

Ophelia's smile is radiant despite her pallor. "I've been waiting for this day since we were children, Jackson. A little weakness isn't going to stop me now." Her fingers find mine, cold but steady. "Besides, we don't know how much time I have left. I want to be your wife while I still can."

The words hit me like a physical blow, as they always do. Terminal cancer. Stage four. The doctors had been brutally honest about her prognosis—months, maybe a year if she's lucky. Every day with her feels borrowed, precious beyond measure.

My phone buzzes insistently against my chest, vibrating through my jacket pocket. I glance at the screen—Elizabeth's name flashing in bold letters. I silence it immediately, sliding the device back into my pocket without a second thought.

"Everything okay?" Ophelia asks, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

"Just work stuff," I lie smoothly, focusing on the clasp of her necklace. "Nothing that can't wait."

But the phone starts buzzing again almost immediately, the persistent vibration impossible to ignore. This time I pull it out with visible irritation, Elizabeth's name glowing accusingly on the screen.

"I should take this," I mutter, already dreading whatever domestic crisis she's manufactured now. Elizabeth has been increasingly needy lately, calling at the most inconvenient times, demanding attention I simply don't have to give. Not when Ophelia needs me, not when every moment with her is precious.

I swipe to answer, my voice clipped and impatient. "Elizabeth, I'm busy. Can this wait?"

"Jackson, thank God—" Her voice is strange, higher pitched than usual, with an edge that makes me frown. "Jackson, you need to listen to me. We're at the mall and there are men with guns—"

"Are you serious right now?" I cut her off, my irritation flaring into anger. "Today? Of all days, you choose today to pull one of your dramatic stunts?"

"This isn't a stunt!" The desperation in her voice is almost convincing, but I've heard Elizabeth's theatrics before. "There are gunmen here, they have us trapped in the jewelry store, and they're asking for you specifically—"

"Elizabeth, stop." My voice drops to a dangerous whisper as Ophelia turns in her chair, concern creasing her delicate features. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm not falling for it. Not today. Today is about Ophelia, about giving her the wedding she deserves before—"

"Jackson, please, you have to believe me—" Her voice cracks, and I can hear what sounds like shouting in the background, but it could be anything. Mall noise, a movie, some elaborate production she's staged. "They want you here in an hour or they're going to hurt Dakota—"

"Enough!" The word explodes from me, and Ophelia flinches at the volume. I lower my voice, but the fury remains. "I'm done with your jealousy, Elizabeth. I'm done with your attempts to sabotage the one good thing in my life. Ophelia is dying, do you understand that? She's dying, and all you can think about is yourself."

"Jackson—" The desperation in her voice almost sounds real, but I've fallen for her manipulations before.

"No. I'm hanging up now, and I'm turning off my phone. When you're ready to act like an adult instead of a spoiled child, we can talk. But not today. Today belongs to Ophelia."

I end the call with a sharp jab of my finger, immediately switching the phone to silent mode. The screen goes dark, Elizabeth's name disappearing as if it never existed.

"Is everything alright?" Ophelia's voice is soft, concerned, and I turn back to her with what I hope is a reassuring smile.

"Everything's perfect," I say, slipping the phone into my jacket pocket and pushing thoughts of Elizabeth's call from my mind. "Just Elizabeth being Elizabeth. Nothing that should concern you on your wedding day."

Ophelia nods, though worry still shadows her eyes. "Maybe you should—"

"No." I take her hands in mine, feeling how fragile her fingers have become. "Today is about us. About the life we're going to build together, however long we have. Elizabeth can wait."

As I lean down to kiss her forehead, I have no idea that twenty miles away, my wife is staring at her silent phone with tears streaming down her face, while men with guns pace behind her and my daughter whimpers in terror.

My phone buzzes again just as I'm adjusting Ophelia's veil, the delicate lace catching the afternoon light streaming through the hotel suite windows. The vibration against my chest feels like an accusation, insistent and unwelcome.

"Jackson, you should probably—" Ophelia starts, but I'm already pulling the device from my pocket with barely contained irritation.

Elizabeth's name glows on the screen again, and something cold settles in my stomach. She never calls twice in a row unless she's really committed to whatever performance she's staging today.

"This better be important," I mutter, swiping to answer. "Elizabeth, I told you I'm—"

"Please don't hang up." Her voice is different this time—raw, desperate in a way that makes me pause. "Jackson, I need you to listen. There's a man here who wants to talk to you."

Before I can respond, the phone crackles and a rough male voice cuts through the line. "Jackson Ryan?"

I frown, glancing at Ophelia who's watching me with growing concern. "Who is this?"

"Someone who's been waiting to meet you." The voice is calm, controlled, with an edge that raises the hair on my arms. "Your wife and daughter are with me at Westfield Mall. We're having a lovely conversation about you."

"Look, I don't know what kind of sick joke this is—"

"No joke, Mr. Ryan. Your wife is sitting right here, and she's been very cooperative so far. Haven't you, Elizabeth?"

There's a muffled sound, like someone being pushed, and then Elizabeth's voice comes back on the line, shaky and thin. "Jackson, please. You have to come. They have guns, and Dakota is so scared—"

"Enough!" The word explodes from me, and Ophelia flinches in her chair. I turn away from her, lowering my voice but not the venom in it. "I don't know how far you're willing to take this charade, Elizabeth, but I'm not playing along."

The male voice returns, and this time there's amusement in it. "She said you wouldn't believe her. Smart woman. But maybe this will convince you."

A new sound comes through the phone—metallic, sharp, like scissors closing. Then Elizabeth's scream pierces through the speaker, raw and animal, the kind of sound that bypasses rational thought and goes straight to the primitive brain.

"Mom!" Dakota's voice, high and terrified, cuts through Elizabeth's agony.

I nearly drop the phone, my hands suddenly slick with sweat. "What—what was that?"

"That was your wife's ring finger," the man says conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Pretty little wedding ring you gave her. Shame about all the blood on it now."

Elizabeth's sobs fill the line, broken and desperate, punctuated by Dakota's crying. The sounds are too real, too visceral to be fake. No one could manufacture that kind of pain.

"You're lying," I whisper, but the words feel hollow even as I speak them.

"Am I? Would you like me to describe the jewelry store we're in? Or maybe you'd prefer I tell you about the brooch your wife was buying when we found her? Had your initials engraved on it. Sweet gesture, really."

My legs go weak. Elizabeth had mentioned the mall, said they were shopping. The brooch—she'd been buying me a gift. For my birthday next week.

"Jackson," Elizabeth's voice comes back, thick with pain and tears. "Please. I know you hate me, I know you want to be with her, but Dakota doesn't deserve this. She's just a child."

"I don't—" I start, but the words stick in my throat.

"You have thirty minutes," the man interrupts. "Westfield Mall, jewelry store on the second floor. Come alone, or I start on the little girl next. And Mr. Ryan? Your wife wanted me to tell you something."

There's a pause, then Elizabeth's voice, barely a whisper: "The brooch was for your birthday. I wanted to surprise you."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone, my hand trembling. Behind me, Ophelia's voice seems to come from very far away.

"Jackson? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I turn to face her, this woman I've chosen over my family, this woman whose wedding I've prioritized over my wife's desperate pleas for help. She looks so fragile in her wedding dress, so beautiful and dying.

"I have to go," I hear myself say.

"What? Jackson, the ceremony starts in an hour—"

"I'm busy with more important matters," I mutter, the words automatic, even as Elizabeth's screams echo in my memory. But my feet don't move toward the door. They stay planted on the hotel carpet, anchored by months of devotion to the woman in white.

The phone in my hand feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.