Then I saw the heels.
Black. One tilted on its side.
Not mine.
The kind of shoes a woman chose when she wanted to feel powerful. Desired.
The bouquet tightened in my grip until the stems creaked.
“Jenny,” I whispered, my voice thin. “Stay here.”
But she was already drifting toward the kitchen, humming off-key.
I moved forward on legs that suddenly felt too heavy, too slow. Each step was cushioned with dread, it whispered what I already knew.
A faint sound reached me. A rhythm. Soft. Muffled.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
My breath caught, not in panic, not yet, but in recognition.
I knew that sound. That cadence. That intimate, unhurried force of a bed hitting a wall.
“No…” My voice cracked. “No, he wouldn’t…”
But the part of me that still believed in endless summer days and whispered promises began to fracture. A hairline crack at first, then spreading, unstoppable.
My hand lifted toward the guest room door. The room we’d painted together last June, arguing over music while tiny flecks of pale green dried on our arms. The room he’d promised would one day be a nursery.
My fingers trembled as they closed over the knob.
I hesitated, just long enough for the future I imagined to flash behind my eyes. The aisle. The house we found. The promises I thought were real.
It all teetered.
Then I turned the knob. The door creaked open, silently. And the world tilted.
Ethan was naked, moving.
The rhythm that had lived against my skin for years suddenly belonged to someone else.
Ashley, my friend, bridesmaid.
Her head tipped back.
His mouth at her throat.
Her long fingernails gripping his shoulders, leaving scratches, like she owned him.
For a second, my body forgot how to function. Breathing and standing, all of it felt like a task too big.
Jenny dropped something in the kitchen. The sound shattered the spell, sharp as breaking glass.
Ethan froze. Ashley gasped from shock.
