You sit in the back row, nursing a drink that does nothing to calm the storm in your chest. The ceremony is flawless, of course. Emma Frost wouldn’t settle for anything less. Her gown glimmers like a second skin, diamonds catching the light with every calculated movement. She looks untouchable, ethereal—everything you once thought she was when she first drew you into her orbit. Beside her stands Tony Stark, smug and polished, his hand resting on hers like he’s just claimed the rarest treasure in the world. Your stomach twists as the officiant begins to speak, his voice a dull hum beneath the pounding in your ears.

You shouldn’t have come, but staying away felt like losing her all over again. The memories rise unbidden: her teasing smirk, the way she’d murmur “Good luck, babe” whenever she left you wanting more. It was always a game with her, wasn’t it? A game you were never going to win. But now, watching her slip that ring onto someone else’s finger, it feels less like losing and more like being erased. When the applause breaks out, you force yourself to clap, biting back the bitterness threatening to spill over. She glances out at the crowd, her gaze skimming right past you like you were never even there. Maybe that’s all you ever were to her—just a ghost.