The air in the grand ballroom of the Beaumont Hotel was thick with the scent of white roses, expensive champagne, and the suffocating promise of a lie. Vera Hastings, stunning in her custom-made ivory gown, felt none of the bridal ecstasy she was supposed to. Instead, she was an exquisite, trembling nerve ending, waiting for the moment the world would right itself.
She glanced at the gold band on her left hand, already a heavy, meaningless weight. Tonight was supposed to be the culmination of years of quiet, steady love with Liam. They were the perfect pair: she, the ambitious, slightly reserved architect; he, the charming, reliable banker. Their life was mapped out—a house in the suburbs, two dogs, maybe three kids. Safe. Predictable.
But predictability had just been blown to smithereens.
It had happened thirty minutes ago. The reception was in full swing. Liam had complained of a headache and slipped out to their bridal suite on the third floor. Vera, following five minutes later to check on him and touch up her makeup, found the suite door slightly ajar.
"I can't believe we finally pulled this off, honey," a voice cooed. It was high, sultry, and terrifyingly familiar.
Vera froze in the hallway. Her mother had passed away years ago, leaving her in the care of her father and her stepmother, Serena. Serena was only ten years older than Vera, a perpetually youthful woman with a practiced, saccharine smile.
And it was Serena's voice.
Vera pushed the door open, her heart performing a catastrophic, silent explosion in her chest.
The sight was a tableau of betrayal, lit harshly by the suite's chandelier. Liam, her groom, his tuxedo jacket undone, was pressed against the wall, his hands buried in the blonde hair of—
Serena.
Her stepmother was kissing him. Not a clumsy peck, but a deep, desperate, consuming kiss that spoke of long practice and deep intimacy.
"I just needed one last taste before she ruins you for good," Serena purred, pulling back just enough to look into Liam's eyes.
Liam looked over Serena's shoulder and saw Vera. His face didn't crumple into denial or panic; it settled into a weary, defeated resignation.
"Vera…" he started.
Vera didn't scream. She didn't cry. A frightening stillness washed over her, freezing the hot tears in her ducts. She was no longer a bride; she was a witness to an execution. The life she thought she had was dead.
"Don't," she said, her voice a hollow whisper that sounded louder than any shout. She didn't look at Serena, who was now straightening her gown with an arrogant smirk. She looked only at Liam. "Was it worth the lie, Liam?"
"I tried to stop it," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes. "It just… happened."
"It just happened to start before the wedding and continue to the hour of the reception?" Vera gave a single, mirthless laugh. She reached up, slowly pulled the veil from her hair, and dropped it on the plush carpet. "Keep the ring. Keep the suite. Keep each other. I hope you enjoy the rest of the party."
She turned, her gown rustling with the sound of shredded promises, and walked out.