I Do, You Don't

  Audrey Halliwell

  Independently Published

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2025 by Audrey Halliwell

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. Small snippets may be used for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Covers by Sophia

  Line Edited: Audrey Halliwell via ProWritingAid, Hemingway, and Autocrit

  Copy edited and proofread: Michelle W

  Formatted using Atticus.io

  www.audreyhalliwell.com

  Contents

  1. Blurb:

  2. Chapter 1

  3. Chapter 2

  4. Chapter 3

  5. Chapter 4

  6. Chapter 5

  7. Chapter 6

  8. Chapter 7

  9. Chapter 8

  10. Chapter 9

  11. Chapter 10

  12. Chapter 11

  13. Chapter 12

  14. Chapter 13

  15. Chapter 14

  16. Chapter 15

  17. Chapter 16

  18. Chapter 17

  19. Chapter 18

  20. Chapter 19

  21. Chapter 20

  22. Chapter 21

  23. Chapter 22

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  24. False Awakening Sneak Peek

  Blurb:

  Lara’s life shatters when her fiancé, Gideon, leaves her at the altar—humiliated, broken, and betrayed. The woman responsible? Delilah, his childhood best friend, who’s always been just a little too close for comfort. As Delilah spins her lies, claiming that Lara was unfaithful with another man, Gideon believes her and walks away. What he doesn’t know is that the man Lara allegedly had an affair with is her and Delilah’s shared, secret half-brother, Calvin. He also doesn’t know that Delilah intentionally lied to him, keeping their family’s hidden truth from both of them.

  Calvin remains by Lara’s side, fiercely protective and determined to make Gideon pay for his mistake. Meanwhile, Gideon overhears Delilah admitting the truth—that Calvin is the shared sibling between her and Lara, and that Delilah deliberately deceived him—Gideon realizes he made the biggest mistake of his life.

  What happens when the man you thought you’d spend forever with is deceived by the one person who never wanted you to have him?

  I Do, You Don’t is a sizzling, dramatic romance about betrayal, family secrets, and revenge. With a hero driven by vengeance and a woman determined to rebuild, this soap-opera-worthy saga of love, lies, and loss will keep you turning pages until the very end.

  Readers can expect tropes such as:

  Second Chance

  Betrayal

  Groveling

  Overheard

  Other Woman Drama

  Family Secrets

  No cheating between main characters or pregnancy.

  Chapter 1

  Lara

  It's not the dress I wanted, yet it's the one I could afford, and the one I'll wear.

  It came off the clearance rack at a boutique that smelled of cinnamon potpourri and faded perfume. The lace is scratchy. The hem brushes the tops of my shoes only if I stand perfectly still. But it fits. And more importantly, it’s the dress I said yes to, because I’m about to marry the only man who’s ever made me feel like I’m not too much and not too little.

  I’ve always been too much, too loud, too eager, a dreamer with too little to offer. But with Gideon, I finally feel like enough.

  And that’s what makes this moment so complicated.

  People whisper that I’m a gold-digger, waiting for our finances to merge. I couldn’t care less. I’m marrying Gideon because I love him.

  So yes, the lace itches. The hem is too short. But if this is the dress I wear to marry the love of my life, then I love it.

  I smooth my palms over the bodice, pressing out a wrinkle that probably won’t even show. The dressing room mirror is smudged in the corners. The overhead light buzzes like it has a headache. Still, I can almost see it: the aisle, the moment, the look on his face. That part is crystal clear—like the kind of fantasy I should’ve outgrown when I left my mom’s cramped apartment and stepped into a world I’ve never quite belonged to.

  Outside, laughter bursts through the curtain. Delilah. Of course.

  I take a breath, not because I’m nervous about the ceremony, but because being in the same bridal suite as her feels like sitting too close to a lit candle. Too close, and you’ll burn.

  She’s in my wedding party at Gideon’s request. “She’s like a sister to me,” he’d said, flashing that boyish half-grin that always melted my doubts. That grin. It softened the edges of everything, made me believe the world could fit together neatly, like puzzle pieces.

  But with Delilah in the picture, I can’t pretend it’s that simple.

  Maybe once it was. But that was before I started noticing the cracks beneath her polish.

  Now, every compliment feels dipped in acid. Every smile just wide enough to show teeth.

  “She’s still not ready?” Delilah’s voice slices through the air, smooth, sharp. “Honestly, if I had her budget, I’d be done by now.”

  Funny how it’s always everyone else talking about my budget. Never me.

  A flicker of heat rises in my chest. There’s an awkward shuffle outside the curtain, a cough, a throat clear, acrylic nails tapping too fast against a phone screen.

  I roll my eyes and adjust the neckline. She’s not wrong. My dress was an afterthought. My shoes are borrowed. My bouquet will be made of grocery-store roses I arranged myself at midnight, after the florist canceled.

  But I don’t care.

  I never wanted a wedding I couldn’t afford. I wanted the one with Gideon.

  Outside the window, the sky hangs heavy and gray. Not raining, but threatening. The faint scent of champagne drifts in from the outer room, someone popped a bottle too early. My stomach tightens. For a moment, I wonder if anyone would notice if I slipped out for air. If I could shake off the fear creeping through me like a shadow.

  A knock sounds against the doorframe.

  “Lara?”

  It’s Drew. My sister. Her voice is soft, the same quiet, steady calm she always wears when she’s trying not to make waves. She’s always been like that: protective in the background, careful never to step on my toes.

  “You almost ready?”

  I exhale, a half-laugh slipping out. She can hear the nerves in my voice without me saying a word. She always knows what I need, whether it’s a cup of coffee or the kind of support that says, I see you. I get it.

  “Yes,” I say, even though I don’t feel ready. Not because of the dress. Not even because of Gideon. Because of Delilah.

  I gather the skirt in both hands and step out of the soft-lit fitting nook into the main suite, where the walls are lined with gilded mirrors and laughter that never quite reaches me. The air feels heavier here, like the room itself is holding its breath.

  And then I see her.

  Delilah. Legs crossed. Latte in hand. Wearing white.

  Not ivory. Not champagne. White.

  Like she forgot whose day this was, or didn’t care.

  “That’s a bold choice,” I say, brushing past her with a tight smile and a tighter stomach. My voice doesn’t shake, but everything inside me does. Delilah’s presence has always been a sharp edge, and right now, it’s cutting through everything I’ve tried to build.

  She tilts her head. “Oh, this?” She smooths a hand over the satiny fabric, as if she hadn’t picked it for maximum impact. “It’s cream. Totally different.”

  The other bridesmaids shift. Drew shoots me a look, half pity, half concern. One of the girls suddenly finds her phone fascinating. The laughter dies.

  Delilah looks at me the way she always has: like I’m a limited-edition doll she can’t wait to break.

  And I let her. Because she’s important to Gideon. Because, get this, Delilah and I share a secret half-brother.

  The seamstress bustles in behind me, chirping something about time and adjustments, but I barely hear her. My mind is stuck on Gideon’s voice from last night, the way it cracked when he said, “You’ve been acting different. Like you’re hiding something.”

  I am. But not what he thinks.

  He thinks it’s another man. He didn’t say it, but I see it in his eyes, the way he watches me lately, like he’s waiting for proof. Like he doesn’t know who I am anymore.

  And the worst part?

  I can’t blame him.

  Delilah’s been working on him for months. Whispering in rooms I wasn’t in. Letting people believe the worst.

  And I had to let her. Because of Calvin.

  My brother. The one I’m not allowed to talk about. Not to Gideon. Not to anyone.

  He didn’t even know I existed until last year. When Calvin asked Delilah and me
to keep it quiet, I agreed. His work in the mafia made the truth dangerous. I understood why he wanted to protect us.

  What I didn’t understand was the weight of that silence.

  While I honored loyalty, Delilah weaponized it.

  Now, I don’t know how much longer I can hold everything together.

  I stand on the platform in front of the mirror. The silk gown clings to me like it knows this wedding might not happen.

  The seamstress adjusts the hem. Delilah scrolls her phone like she isn’t the villain in every nightmare I’ve had for the past six weeks.

  “I saw Gideon last night,” she says, too casually.

  My breath catches. I keep my eyes forward. “Oh?”

  “At Cielo. He said you weren’t feeling well.” She glances up with a faux-frown. “I hope it wasn’t nerves.”

  No. Not nerves. Just guilt. Exhaustion. The weight of a truth that could shatter everything.

  “I’m just overwhelmed,” I say, smoothing a hand over the bodice. “We both are.”

  Delilah smiles, all teeth, no warmth. “You sure it’s not something else? He looked… distant. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing, but if he were my fiancé, I’d want to know if he was having doubts.”

  The mirror betrays me, the flicker of panic in my eyes, the way my shoulders tense. I watch it bloom like a bruise.

  She sees it too. And smiles like someone who just struck gold.

  “I mean,” she adds, standing now, brushing invisible lint from the train of my dress, “some guys get cold feet. Especially when there’s outside pressure.”

  “What pressure?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.

  Her eyes widen, faux-innocent. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything. Just, you know. Family stuff. Secrets. Complicated dynamics.”

  I turn to face her fully. “Is there a reason you’re here early?” I ask, annoyed she arrived before even I did.

  She shrugs. “Just wanted to see how the dress turned out. You’ve been so secretive—didn’t even show us the sketch.”

  “That’s because it’s my wedding,” I say. “Not a group project.”

  The seamstress falters mid-stitch. Drew, now by the window, stiffens. She sets down a tray of water bottles she didn’t need to be carrying and glances over, like she might intervene.

  Delilah laughs, sharp, brittle. “Relax. You’re so sensitive lately. I was just making conversation.”

  “You don’t need to make conversation,” I say. “You just need to wear the dress I picked and stand where you’re told.”

  Silence. Even the seamstress freezes.

  Delilah leans in, voice silk and venom. “I just don’t want you to be blindsided, Lara. That’s all. Gideon and I, we go way back. I know how he gets when he feels trapped.”

  My spine stiffens. “Are you implying something?”

  “No.” She tilts her head. “But if I were you, I’d make sure I was the only one he was saying I love you to.”

  I freeze. Just long enough for her to see it.

  The seamstress fumbles with a pin. The fabric feels too tight, like it’s holding in a breath I can’t afford to release. My sister opens her mouth as if she might speak, then closes it again. The other bridesmaids stare down at their phones.

  But before I can turn away, my sister steps closer and murmurs, “Ignore her. She’s just scared you’ll be happy.”

  It’s barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a blade dipped in balm.

  Delilah doesn’t hear it, but she feels it. Her eyes flick toward Drew, narrowing for half a beat before her mouth curves back into that practiced smirk.

  She scrolls again, her thumb slow and smug, like she’s already read the ending of a book I’m still trying to write.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, not at the dress, not even at her reflection, but at a girl who once believed love would be enough to keep the wolves outside the door.

  But maybe the wolves are already in the room.

  Chapter 2

  Lara

  By the time I get home from the boutique, the smell of champagne clings to my skin, mingling with faint sweat and something sour beneath my arms, stress, maybe, or regret. My feet ache. My head pounds. And Delilah’s words still throb in my ears, like the echo of a slammed door.

  “Are you sure he’s not having doubts?” she’d whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, but soft enough to seem concerned.

  Then she smiled, wide and white and camera-ready. Just asking, babe. You deserve to be sure.

  I should’ve said something. Should’ve told her to leave, or asked the seamstress to call security. But instead, I stood there, silent, while my sister looked at me with that helpless kind of worry that feels worse than pity. One bridesmaid started tapping her acrylics against her phone, pretending not to hear. Another stared at the floor, as if memorizing the grout lines.

  I let it happen. Again.

  Now I’m back in the apartment we share, and it feels off, like something subtle, invisible, has shifted while I was gone.

  The kitchen is dim, lights turned low so amber streaks fall across the counters like bars. The air smells of his cologne, warm spice and something citrusy, and leftover takeout: garlic and grilled meat layered over the faint sharpness of old lemon rinds in the trash.

  Gideon is barefoot in jeans and a black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. His movements are restless, agitated. He paces the kitchen like the floor might give out beneath him if he stands still. A half-empty glass of whiskey sweats beside his phone on the counter. The radio hums, crackling with an old soul track filtered through memory and static.

  I hover in the doorway, dress bag still over one arm, twisting the thin gold band on my finger until the skin underneath goes pink and sore.

  “She wore white today,” I say, my voice cutting through the music like a stone dropped into still water.

  He doesn’t stop pacing, just scrubs a hand through his hair. “It was probably cream.”

  I blink. “Gideon.”

  He freezes mid-step, finally looks at me. The tightness around his mouth, the little twitch in his jaw, it all says: I don’t want to do this right now.

  “Delilah’s not malicious,” he says. “She’s just complicated.”

  “Complicated?” My voice thins. “She made a comment about my budget in front of the whole boutique. She smiled while doing it, like she was being helpful.”

  I take a shaky breath. “And the worst part? Everyone saw it. My sister. The bridesmaids. They all watched her poke the bruise.”

  “You don’t know her like I do,” he says.

  “No,” I snap. “I know what she wants.”

  Silence drops between us like wet wool. The fridge hums. Ice clinks in the glass as condensation trickles down its side. Outside, a dog barks twice, then stops.

  “She’s been through a lot,” he says finally, quietly.

  “So have I,” I reply. My arms fold tight across my chest. “But I don’t use it as an excuse to treat people like they’re disposable.”

  He doesn’t respond, just tips his glass to his lips and swallows.

  “I’ve held my tongue for weeks,” I say, softer now. “I let her be in the bridal party, for you. I bit mine every time she called me budget bride or asked if I was sure you hadn’t proposed out of guilt. I’ve sat through all of it, and you never said a word.”

  “She doesn’t mean it like that,” he mutters.

  “She wore white, Gideon. She meant it.”

  “I think you’re spiraling,” he says. “This is stress talking.”

  “This is me talking.”

  The space between us crackles with a kind of emotional static I can’t name. He’s right here, and still, I feel so far away.

  I move to the takeout bag on the counter and start unpacking it. Plastic containers rustle. The smell of sesame and something buttery fills the air.

  “I thought maybe we could act like we’re still on the same team tonight,” I offer, trying to sound casual. “I brought the dress home. We could have a quiet night.”

  He doesn’t answer, just looks at his phone. Then:

  “I’m going out tonight. Boys’ night.”

  My hands still over the chopsticks. “Tonight?”