The ballroom gleamed under the glow of golden chandeliers, the scent of fresh roses mingling with the crisp linens, creating an atmosphere of elegance and celebration. But beneath it all, my chest felt tight, my breaths heavy with disbelief. What was supposed to be a night of beauty and joy was slowly unraveling into a nightmare I couldn’t escape.
It all started like any other wedding — the familiar clinking of glassware, the flurry of last-minute preparations, and the excited chatter of guests. I had worked countless weddings over the past three years, and they had become second nature. There was a strange comfort in the repetition — setting the tables, arranging the chairs, hearing the soft strains of “Canon in D” filling the air. But this time, something felt off. Deep within, a flicker of recognition, a painful memory stirred. And the moment I saw Dennis at the altar, the man I had once called my husband, I knew everything was about to change. There he stood, about to marry someone else, while I, heartbroken, served drinks and carried trays.
Our wedding day had been simple and intimate — a quiet ceremony in a small countryside chapel, lit by the soft glow of candlelight. No grand gestures, no lavish celebrations — just two young souls promising to love each other forever. Those memories had once been my sanctuary, a place of warmth and hope. Now, they felt like distant echoes in a cold, empty room.
As usual, I had arrived early to help the catering team prepare for the evening’s festivities. The atmosphere was light, the guests were in high spirits, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to forget the storm brewing in my heart. But then, Stacee, my trusted colleague and friend, barged into the restroom where I was washing my hands. Her face was ashen, her eyes wide with fear.
“Lori,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I think you need to leave. Now.”