Chapter 3 - Eight Months of Lies
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In an instant, tiny, disconnected pieces of the past few months suddenly locked together in my mind with terrifying clarity.
Three weeks ago, Danielle had asked for the exact name and address of my private bridal boutique on Madison Avenue. “I just love the aesthetic, Vic,” she had purred over coffee. “I want inspiration for when my time comes.”
Two weeks ago, Ryan had canceled our anniversary dinner because an urgent corporate account had kept him at the office until midnight.
A week ago, Danielle had hugged me tight in our mother’s kitchen, looking into my eyes, saying, “Nobody is ever going to outshine you on your big day, Victoria.”
They had planned every single second of this spectacle.
Danielle took another deliberate step forward, her satin skirt rustling against the floor. "Please say something, Vicki. Don't just stand there."
I looked down at her dress. Then I looked directly into the lenses of her friends' recording phones.
"You planned the entrance," I said, my voice dangerously steady.
Danielle’s dramatic smile flickered. "This isn't about an entrance—"
"You asked for my boutique. You bought a duplicate of my gown," I continued, stepping toward her. "You waited until two hundred people were seated. And you brought a camera crew to record my breakdown."
One of her friends immediately lowered her phone, looking uncomfortable.
Danielle’s chest rose and fell rapidly. "Vicki, I didn't want things to happen like this..."
I let out a dry, breathy laugh. "Then why choose this exact second? Why not yesterday? Why not two months ago?"
She had no answer. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Ryan took a tentative step toward me, reaching out a hand. "Victoria, please. Can we talk somewhere private?"
Something inside me, some long-held impulse to keep the peace, finally snapped and died.
"Private?" I asked, looking him up and down. "You had eight months to talk to me in private, Ryan."
The church was so quiet I could hear the distant whistle of the street traffic outside.
I looked at Danielle. "How long?"
She hesitated, shifting her weight. "Victoria—"
"How long have you been sleeping with my fiancé, Danielle?"
My mother let out another faint sob.
Danielle swallowed hard, her artificial bravado crumbling under the weight of two hundred staring eyes. "Eight months," she whispered.
Eight months.
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Thanksgiving dinner. Christmas morning. My thirty-first birthday party. Our engagement celebration in the Hamptons. The weekend Danielle stayed on our couch while her apartment was being painted.
Eight months of my life rewritten in an instant.
