Over the next two months, a bizarre bond formed. Emily kept Sloane close—inviting her to coffee, letting her help with the seating charts and the floral tallies. They became a team. Sloane was efficient, seemingly loyal, and constantly reassuring.
A week before the wedding, as they sat in Emily's living room surrounded by ribbon samples, Emily looked Sloane in the eye. "Tell me the truth, Sloane. Have you been with him? Since our talk at the bistro?"
Sloane didn't blink. She reached out and squeezed Emily’s hand, her expression one of pure, sisterly concern. "No, Emily. I swear on my life. I realized you were right. He belongs to you and Charles. I’ve kept it entirely professional. I value our friendship too much to go back there."
Emily exhaled, a massive weight lifting from her chest.
***
The morning of the wedding at the five-star hotel was a frantic symphony. Emily sat in the bridal suite, feeling a strange, detached calm. Ryan had been perfect for weeks—attentive, kind, and present.
"I'll be right back," Emily told the other girls. "I want to take Ryan his gift before I get into the dress."
She had bought him a platinum Patek Philippe watch, engraved with today's date. It was a seal on their new arrangement. She slipped out of the room, her silk robe billowing, and made her way to the Groom’s Suite.
The double doors were slightly ajar. She pushed them open, a smile already forming on her lips.
"Ryan, I have something for—"
The words died in her throat. The heavy gift box slipped from her hand, hitting the plush carpet with a dull thud.
The suite was bathed in harsh morning light. Ryan was there, already in his tuxedo trousers and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. But he wasn't alone.
Sloane was draped across the vanity chair. Her bridesmaid dress—the one Emily had picked out, the one they had laughed over during fittings—was pushed up to her waist. Her silk stockings were hooked over Ryan’s shoulders.
Ryan was positioned between her legs, his head lowered, his mouth moving against her skin with a hungry, practiced ease.
"God, Ryan," Sloane gasped, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, her head thrown back in a look of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
Ryan let out a low, dark chuckle, his voice muffled against her skin. "You always were the best part of the bridal party, Sloane. I love your taste. Much better than the vintage champagne they’re serving downstairs."
Emily stood in the doorway, a ghost in white silk, realizing that the "respect" was a lie and the "friendship" was a trap. Every warning Sarah had ever given her echoed in the silence of the room. She had destroyed her sister's life to get into this room, and now she realized the gilded cage didn't just have bars—it was filled with snakes.
Chapter Twelve
Emily
The daze that had held her frozen—the hypnotic, horrifying sight of the two people she had trusted most—finally snapped as Sloane let out a final, shuddering breath.
"I love you," Sloane whispered, her voice a ragged confession against Ryan’s skin.
The silence in the groom’s suite was shattered by the sharp, rhythmic sound of Emily’s gasps.
Ryan didn't move. He didn't scramble to hide or offer a frantic apology. He simply looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Emily’s pale, trembling form. He looked inconvenienced, as if she had interrupted a minor business meeting rather than his own betrayal.
"Emily," he said, his voice as smooth and cold as the marble floors of the hotel.
Sloane’s head snapped toward the door. The color vanished from her face. She stood in a state of frozen, naked shame, quickly pulling the fabric of her bridesmaid dress down to cover herself. Her hands shook so violently she could barely smooth the silk.
"Emily, please," Sloane gasped, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Please forgive me. I love him... I tried so hard to stay away, I swear! But he couldn't do without me, and I couldn't breathe without him. I know it’s wrong, but I can't help it."
The apology felt like acid on Emily's skin. The woman she had considered her only ally, her "friend," was standing there admitting she had been a willing participant.
"You bitch!" Emily shrieked, the sound tearing from her throat.
Blinded by a sudden, white-hot rage, Emily lunged forward, her hands clawing the air as she tried to reach Sloane's face. She wanted to tear the hair from her head, to erase the smugness of that "I love you."
But she never reached her.
