Gemotions

The champagne flute trembled in Amelia's hand, threatening to spill its golden contents onto the pristine white tablecloth. She’d known this day might come, but the sight of Mark, his arm around a smiling woman with a cascade of blonde curls, still sent a cold shiver down her spine. The laughter of the surrounding guests felt like a mocking symphony.

She excused herself from the table, a flimsy excuse about needing air. The wedding venue, a sprawling garden estate, seemed suddenly suffocating. Every happy couple, every shared glance, was a fresh jab. She found a quiet bench near a fountain, the water’s gentle splashing the only sound that wasn’t a painful reminder.

Her breath hitched as she watched him from afar. He looked so… well, so *happy*. She traced the rim of the fountain with her fingertip, a dull ache blooming in her chest.