It rings and rings before going to voicemail. I hang up before the message finishes playing.
Something tightens in my chest. He should be enjoying his night with me. He should be talking to our friends with me, and accepting congratulations with his hand held firmly in mine.
I tuck my phone away and turn when someone calls my name. Another congratulations. Another photo. Someone asks about the flowers, who arranged them, whether I had help planning everything.
I answer automatically. Yes, the hotel staff has been wonderful. Yes, they’re incredibly professional. Yes, Mrs. Belova is a dream, and I can’t wait to be her daughter-in-law.
When I’m free again, I check my phone. Still nothing. I tell myself not to make this into a bigger deal than it needs to be. I’m just tired and overstimulated and being pulled in ten directions at once. I’m just inventing problems.
I tell myself all of this, but my gut won’t be ignored. Something feels off.
I step toward the windows at the edge of the ballroom, where the noise fades just enough that I can hear my own breathing. The city stretches out below, distant and indifferent.
I dial him again. I get his voicemail again. This time, I let it play. His voice sounds relaxed. Confident. Like nothing in the world could be wrong.
I hang up and stare at his name on the screen, opting to text him instead.
Where are you?
I watch the screen longer than I should. No typing bubbles appear. My fingers curl around the phone.
I scan the room again, this time from the outside. I walk the perimeter, smiling when people stop me, excusing myself politely when conversations try to pull me in.
The discomfort in my chest sharpens into something harder to ignore. I can’t stand here anymore.
I nod politely at guests as I move toward the door. The hallway outside the ballroom feels cooler and much quieter. The music dulls into a background thrum. My heels sound too loud on the carpet.
I hesitate, suddenly aware of how alone I am out here.
This is ridiculous,I tell myself. He’s probably on a call. Or outside. Or in the restroom.
I check my phone again.
Nothing.
I start walking, checking side spaces as I go. He isn’t near the restrooms or in the small lounge where a few guests are laughing over drinks. The further I get from the ballroom, the more uneasy I feel.
I stop at the intersection of two hallways, debating whether to turn back, when I hear his laughter. It’s close and intimate, in a way I’ve come to know well.
My heart starts beating faster, hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.You’re imagining things,I tell myself. But my feet move anyway. I turn down the narrower corridor meant for staffand deliveries. The lighting is dimmer here, less opulent and more practical. The air smells faintly of cleaning products.
Then I hear a woman’s voice, soft and nervous. She’s murmuring something, and I hear Kostya’s laughter again.
My stomach drops.
I round the corner.
That’s when I finally find my fiancé. He is standing, facing the wall, with his pants unbuckled and his lips on another woman’s exposed chest. She’s wearing a hotel uniform. Her hands are gripping his jacket and body is angled into hers, one arm braced beside her head, the other grasping her thigh.
For a moment, my brain stalls. There’s no way I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. There’s no way my fiancé is fucking another woman at our goddamn engagement party. My breath comes out in short spurts, and I start to see red.
“Kostya,” I say in a thin voice.
They both instantly freeze. He turns slowly, already arranging his expression. That familiar calm smile slides into place like it’s muscle memory.
“Alina,” he says, the panic evident on his face. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
The woman’s eyes widen. She shoves at his chest and stumbles away from him, muttering something I don’t catch before she disappears down the hall.
