Chapter 2: The Apology Banquet

Grant’s plane had already taken off. I locked myself in the bridal lounge and shed a single tear.

My reflection stared back at me from the gilded mirror—mascara barely smudged, lipstick still perfect. One fat tear tracked down my cheek, and I dabbed it away before it could fall onto the lace. My jaw ached from clenching it. I forced a smile, but my reflection didn’t buy it. My fingers shook, but I wouldn’t let anyone see me break. If Savannah was going to talk, they’d talk about my dignity, not my heartbreak.

Outside, my irritable father was cursing up a storm. Uncle Peterson was furiously making call after call, determined to intercept Grant as soon as he landed.

I could hear Dad’s booming voice echoing down the corridor, mixing with Uncle Peterson’s clipped, anxious orders. In any other family, it would’ve been chaos, but here, it was just another day at the top. Somewhere, I heard the wedding planner telling the florist to swap out the wilted hydrangeas. Even now, the show had to go on.

There were two messages on my phone.

Grant: [Natalie, wait for me. I’ll come back and explain everything.]

I stared at the text, thumb hovering over the reply button. What could he possibly say that would make this right? The words burned on the screen, empty and too late.

The other message was a photo of Grant.

He was striding toward the boarding gate, head down, talking on the phone. He wore the suit I’d painstakingly designed with the tailor for his wedding day. The tie I’d chosen hung loosely around his neck.

It was almost cinematic—the way he looked both determined and distracted, my handiwork rumpled on his broad shoulders. I knew every stitch, every thread, and now he wore them into someone else’s story.

His expression was gentle, his eyes full of affection, as if he were coaxing the person on the other end of the call.

Anyone who saw this would sigh: The girl he’s talking to is really lucky.

It stung, how obvious it was, even to strangers. My chest tightened, an old, familiar ache.

I zoomed in on the photo and stared at it for a long time.

It was hard to let go.

But I’d given him the chance, and he’d made his choice.

You have to move forward without regrets.

After touching up my makeup, I gathered the long train of my wedding dress, opened the lounge door, and greeted the waiting elders with a smile, no matter what looks they gave me.

The wedding proceeded as planned.

Cameras clicked, relatives murmured, and I played my part to the letter. If anyone noticed my hands trembling, they kept it to themselves. By the end of the night, the city’s rumor mill had a feast, but I never let my mask slip. Not once.

Grant returned three days later.

Three long, muggy days. The Spanish moss outside my window drooped in the humidity, and I kept my phone on silent. My mother hovered, bringing sweet tea and gentle reminders to eat. The silence was a mercy and a punishment, both at once.

For seventy-two hours, I was the center of public attention.

Every major and minor newspaper, every social media outlet, was talking about how the eldest daughter of the Sullivan family, Natalie Sullivan, was abandoned by Grant Peterson on her wedding day, yet still completed the entire elaborate wedding ceremony alone.

Local news anchors debated my next move. Twitter trended with #SavannahBride. Even the gossip accounts posted side-by-side photos of me alone at the altar and Grant vanishing through customs. For once, everyone cared about my story.

Some lamented the coldness of the wealthy, some sympathized with me, and of course, some took pleasure in my misfortune.

People in Savannah love a good scandal—especially when the mighty stumble. My inbox overflowed with condolences from the city’s old guard and thinly veiled gloating from the nouveau riche. Half the country club ladies offered their sons for a rebound date. Bless their hearts.

But no matter what was said, for the first time, in every headline, my name came before Grant’s.

To apologize to the Sullivan family, my father-in-law, Mr. Peterson, personally hosted a banquet.

The invitations went out fast—engraved, gold-edged, hand-delivered by Peterson staff. Even the governor’s aide RSVP’d. In our world, a public apology isn’t just manners—it’s damage control. The ballroom at the Mansion on Forsyth Park gleamed under crystal chandeliers, as if money alone could erase humiliation.

As the glasses were raised and the mood reached its peak, Mr. Peterson lifted his glass to me.

“Natalie, this toast is from Dad to you.”

“You handled yourself like a true Sullivan, Natalie. Kept your head high and did what needed doing. That takes guts.”

“It’s the Peterson family that’s wronged you. Don’t worry, Dad will make it right.”

The room held its breath as he spoke. Faces around the table flickered between sympathy and calculation. Southern hospitality could be a razor-edged thing.

I dropped my gaze and lifted my glass, mouth opening to say the right words—when the doors banged open so hard the chandeliers rattled. Grant strode in, still travel-worn.

My father’s face darkened as he slammed his glass onto the table.

The spacious hall fell silent.

Mr. Peterson glanced at my father, gritted his teeth, and barked at Grant, “Kneel!”

Grant walked over, step by step, and bowed slightly at the waist.

“Dad, this was my fault.”

My father snorted coldly, refusing to answer.

Grant straightened, placed a document on the table, and said, “I’ll make amends.”

“When I went to New York, I used my status as the Sullivan family’s son-in-law and represented Sullivan Enterprises to sign the cooperation agreement with BL Holdings.”