The silence was deafening at St Patrick’s Cathedral that warm spring day. Even worse than the time that Eloise Mulcahy from last year’s First Communion class had twirled with excitement in front of the altar after the ceremony sans tights or underwear. Her parents still could not look Father Matthews in the eye.

Neither could Cecily Steele, biting her bottom lip, staring down at her bouquet as if she could somehow disappear into the fragrant blossoms.

Father Matthews cleared his thought and repeated the question Cecily had been dreading for the past year: “Do you, Cecily, take Jonathan to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and forsaking all others, til death do you part?”

She looked into Jonathan’s expectant face, his unsuspecting grin with perfect teeth that had cost at least fifteen thousand between orthodontia and veneers. She did a quick glance over her shoulder, her wide green eyes finding the icy blue ones of her mother.

Miranda Steele was all but mouthing the words “I do.” She had adored Jonathan from the start, after all. Or had it really been his bank account?

Jonathan Hearst, yes, that Hearst family, won her over within five minutes of Cecily introducing him to her parents. Her eyes flicked to her father, George, whose fingers were entwined with her mother’s. Only she knew her mother was likely crushing his hand.

It would be so easy to say those two little words. To marry this man of wealth and privilege. Bind her nouveau riche that wasn’t exactly stable with his sturdy old money, not to mention the cache of his name.

And yet she found herself saying two very similar words, yet their meaning was entirely different.

“I don’t.” A glance back at her groom, who had never known rejection. At his his equal parts confused, angry, crestfallen expression, she added, “I’m sorry, Jon. But I can’t.” She passed the bouquet into his trembling hands and ran back down the aisle, her gauzy veil trailing behind her, fleeing as fast as her heavy damask gown and towering heels would allow, towards freedom.