The Bride Who Chose the Nation

The train of the wedding dress trailed along the hotel corridor's carpet like a heavy cloud, my fingers clutching the bouquet turning white. The Master of ceremonies approached me for the third time, his voice low: "Miss Trent, there is still no news from Mr. Johnson." I nodded, my gaze passing over the crowd and settling on the banquet hall doorway. Where Henry Johnson should have stood—my fiancé, the groom of the day. But half an hour ago, he took a phone call and rushed away, leaving only the words, "Sydney is missing, I must go find her." Sydney James, my cousin, and the "creditor" I've owed since childhood. The guests began whispering among themselves. My parents hurried over. I expected words of comfort but first heard Mom's reproach: "Sydney's mom died saving you. Have a heart! Now that she's missing, Henry going after her is only right. Don't show that expression here." I was stunned; it turned out that in their eyes, I was not even entitled to feel sorrow. Sydney's mom saved me from drowning by the river twenty years ago, but she herself never came back up. Since that day, the words "You owe Sydney your life" have been branded into the lives of my family and me like an indelible mark. I opened my mouth to explain that I had not shown any resentment, but Mom's hand was already raised; a sharp slap landed on my face, the pain making my ears ring. "You still want to deny it?" Her voice trembled with tears, but not for me: "If anything happens to Sydney, you will never find peace in your lifetime!" The murmurs around me grew louder; I covered my burning cheeks, watching my parents turn away to contact Henry, without even a single glance at me. The bouquet slipped from my hands, rose petals scattering on the ground like shattered dreams. I suddenly felt utterly exhausted, so much so that even standing was a struggle. I seemed to finally understand that, in both my family's and Henry's hearts, I would always come after Sydney.