Everything was picture-perfect at my best friend Aisha’s wedding. The music was soft, the flowers perfect, and Aisha—glowing in her lace gown—walked down the aisle like a dream. But just as she reached the altar, something subtle caught my eye. Jason, her groom, was rubbing his wrist—over and over, like he was trying to hide something. It was a nervous gesture, one I’d seen before. As he adjusted his cuff, I caught a glimpse of what he was trying to conceal: a name tattooed on his skin. Not Aisha—but Cleo. My heart skipped. Cleo was someone from his past. A name he once swore meant nothing. A name Aisha,

had cried about when she first started dating him. I couldn’t stay silent. My legs moved before I made the decision, and I stood up. “Stop the ceremony,” I said. Gasps echoed through the room. Jason tried to play it off—said it was just henna, fading soon. But then, from the crowd, a woman stood. It was Cleo. She stepped forward and lifted her sleeve,