I press on, my gaze fixed on the single steel door.
This is it.
The point of no return.
My palm is cold and slick against the metal handle.One tug and the door swings inward, assaulting me with harsh fluorescent light.The bass vibrates through the floor and up into my bones, my pulse a frantic counterpoint to the relentless rhythm.
Ahead, a warmer light spills from an open doorway.
The air seizes in my lungs.
I slow my pace, tiptoeing past, when a gruff voice booms behind me.“Excuse me, can I help you?”
Busted.
I force a smile.“Oh, no thanks,” I chirp, an octave too high.“Just looking for the washroom.”
Before he can respond, I push through the double doors, plunging into the crush of bodies.
The music engulfs me.A sea of sweaty limbs and flashing lights presses in.I stumble toward the restrooms and duck into the nearest stall.The lock clicks, promising temporary sanctuary.Leaning against the cool metal door, I close my eyes.
Get a grip, Amy.
I blow out a long, shaky breath.
You can do this.
I fumble with the clasp of my handbag and pull out the wig.
Spicing things up for your fiancé?The saleswoman’s cheerful voice echoes in my mind, a mockery.He’s one lucky man!I remember her winking, oblivious to the dread hollowing me out.
Taking a deep breath, I gather my blonde hair into a tight bun and position the wig.Synthetic fibers feel alien against my fingertips.I smooth the dark curls around my face and step out of the stall.
The woman in the grimy mirror is a stranger.Dark curls obscure my features.My light blue eyes look dull, lost in the shadow of the wig.
Where is she now?
That happy, love-struck Amy?
Gone.
Replaced by this imposter.
This spy.
James’s proposal, once a cherished dream, has become a twisted nightmare.But tonight, the nightmare ends.Tonight, I take back my life.The curly-haired woman in the mirror has the courage to face the ugly truth.
I clench my fist, nails digging into my palm.The slight pain anchors me to the present.
It’s time.
The air vibrates.Blue and white beams of light slash across the writhing mass on the dance floor.I push toward the bar, searching.My gaze snags on two servers balancing trays of sparkler-topped bottles.They weave toward a secluded enclave of plush leather couches.A group erupts in cheers.And there, in the center of it all… him.
My James.
A redhead clings to him like a second skin, her dress barely holding together.
Air leaves my lungs.
