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.
