Chapter 1 - The Descent into the North Stairwell
The heavy fire door of the north stairwell groaned shut behind us, cutting off the low, muffled hum of the string quartet playing three floors below. Down in the grand ballroom of the Grandview Hotel, almost two hundred guests were adjusting their ties, smoothing their silk dresses, and whispering excitedly about when the bride would finally walk down the aisle. They were waiting for the white hydrangeas to part. They were waiting for the classic bridal chorus to swell.
Instead, I was sitting on a cold, ribbed concrete step, the yards of imported Mikado silk and hand-stitched tulle from my wedding gown pooled around me like a spilled cloud. My bouquet—a dense, expensive cluster of white peonies, ranunculus, and baby’s breath—had slipped from my numb fingers. It had rolled a few feet down the landing, coming to a rest against the painted metal railing.
My father’s white rose boutonnière, identical to the one resting on Michael’s chest, felt like a sick cosmic joke.
Michael stood a few steps above me. He was still wearing the custom charcoal-gray tuxedo we had spent four weekends selecting, but his appearance had devolved into a mess of raw panic. Several buttons on his pristine white dress shirt remained undone, exposing the hollow of his throat and the sharp angle of his collarbone where my mother’s fingers had been only moments before.
“Sandra, please,” Michael breathed, his voice cracking with a desperation I had never heard in the five years we had been together. “You’re not thinking clearly. This... it’s not what it looks like. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” The word tasted like ash in my mouth. I looked up at the man who, less than an hour ago, I had believed was my safe harbor, the anchor of my life. “There is nothing complicated about a man standing half-dressed in a hotel suite while his fiancée’s mother fixes her blouse and reapplies her lipstick, Michael. You’re either sleeping with her, or you aren’t.”
“It just... it got out of hand,” he stammered, taking a hesitant step downward. His polished leather shoes clicked against the concrete. “We didn’t plan this. It happened, and then it spiraled, and we didn’t know how to stop it without destroying everything.”
“You should have thought about destroying everything before you started sleeping with my mother three months ago,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. That was the most terrifying part. Inside my chest, my heart was hammering like a trapped bird, but my outward calm felt like a sheet of thick, unyielding ice.
Michael flinched as if I had struck him across the face. “How—how do you know it’s been three months?”
“Because you just told me,” I replied flatly, staring straight into his wide, bloodshot eyes. “When I asked you how long, you didn’t blink. You didn’t hesitate to correct a false timeline. You just gave me the exact duration of your betrayal like you were reading an invoice.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. He reached out, his hand hovering in the air between us, trembling. “Sandra, let’s go back inside. Let’s figure this out in private. We can stall the ceremony. We can tell the coordinator there’s a family emergency. Just... don’t do something rash here in the stairwell.”
“A family emergency?” A dry, humourless laugh escaped my lips. “Oh, that’s rich, Michael. That is quite literally the only true thing you’ve said today.”
Before he could push the conversation further, the heavy metal door at the top of the landing swung open again.
The click of heels preceded her. Monica stepped into the stairwell.
My mother.
She looked entirely different from the disheveled woman I had caught cowering near the bed upstairs. Her hair, which I had watched a stylist blow out into soft, elegant waves that morning, was back in place. Her crimson lipstick—the exact shade she wore to every formal family gathering—had been meticulously reapplied, though her hand trembled slightly as she clutched the strap of her silk designer handbag.
She took one look at me sitting on the concrete in my thousand-dollar wedding gown, and her eyes watered instantly. It was the exact same theatrical performance she had put on while buttoning my dress that morning.
“Sandy,” she murmured, her voice laced with that honeyed, maternal desperation that had once made me feel invincible. “Please. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t ruin your life over a momentary lapse in judgment.”
I slowly pushed myself up from the step, gathering the heavy fabric of my gown in one hand. I didn’t use the wall for support. I stood tall, looking down at the woman who had given birth to me, raised me, listened to my hopes, and then systematically stabbed me in the back while smiling at my bridal showers.
“My life isn’t being ruined, Mom,” I said quietly, each word measured and cold. “Yours is. And honestly? You earned every single piece of it.”
She gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “How can you talk to your mother like that? After everything I’ve done for you? I planned this entire wedding with you! I stood by your side every single day!”
“Yes,” I said, stepping closer to her until I could smell the expensive floral perfume she used to mask the scent of betrayal. “You stood by my side while you were sleeping with the man I was going to marry. Tell me, Mom—did you wear that same perfume when you were in his bed? Did you use the same voice to tell him you loved him that you used to wish me luck this morning?”
Monica recoiled as if she had been slapped. Her face drained of color, leaving her foundation looking stark and artificial against her skin.
Michael groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Stop it. Both of you, just stop it.”
“No, we’re not stopping,” I said, turning my gaze back to my fiancé. “We are going to finish this right here, right now. How many times?”
Michael stared at the floor, his jaw tight.
“I asked you a question, Michael. How many times have you slept with my mother?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted, the stress finally cracking his facade. “I didn’t keep a scorecard, Sandra! It just happened!”
“Eight,” a voice whispered from the side.
We both turned. Monica was staring down at her own manicured nails, her shoulders caving inward.
Michael whipped his head toward her in disbelief. “Monica, what are you doing?”
She closed her eyes, a tear finally breaking free and cutting a clean path through her fresh makeup. “Maybe nine,” she whispered, her voice cracking completely. “On the night of our anniversary... and then twice while you were away on that business trip to Chicago... and the weekend we went wine tasting in Napa...”
The numbers hung in the damp air of the stairwell, heavy and suffocating. Nine times. At least nine times while I was picking out floral arrangements, tasting artisanal cakes, and writing heartfelt thank-you notes to our guests.
My stomach rolled, a hot wave of nausea rising in my throat, but I forced it down. I refused to break down in front of them. I refused to give them the satisfaction of my tears.
“Well,” I said, smoothing the front of my bodice with my free hand. “Thank you for the precise accounting. It really helps clear things up.”
I turned around, grabbed my discarded bouquet from the floor, and looked up toward the upper landing where the hotel hallway led back to the ballroom.
May you like
“Where are you going?” Michael demanded, lunging forward to block my path. “Sandra, you can’t just walk out there! Your father is downstairs! All our friends, our relatives, my entire family—they’re all waiting!”
“Let them wait,” I said, staring directly into his terrified eyes with a gaze so chilling that he instinctively took a step back. “Because the show is officially cancelled.”
