Chapter 2 - THE NUMBERS OF BETRAYAL
I pushed through the heavy steel doors of the north stairwell, the cold concrete steps echoing under my heels. I made it down just one flight before my legs gave out completely. I collapsed onto the landing, surrounded by yards of trailing white fabric.
Seconds later, the heavy door crashed open above me. Michael took the stairs two at a time, his bow tie dangling untied around his neck.
"Sandy, stop! Listen to me!" he pleaded, his voice echoey in the concrete stairwell. "It’s complicated... it's not what you think..."
I looked up at the man I had loved for four years, feeling a profound, ice-cold detachment settle over my bones.
"How long?" I asked quietly.
Michael stopped three steps above me. He stared down at his leather shoes, refusing to speak.
"How long, Michael?" I screamed, my voice cracking.
"Three months," he whispered.
Three months.
My mind raced backward over ninety days of meticulous wedding planning—cake tastings, selecting floral arrangements, sending out gold-embossed invitations, family dinners at my parents' house. Three months ago was my parents' 34th wedding anniversary dinner. That night, my father had gone home early with a migraine, and I had left for an early flight for work. Michael had offered to stay behind to help my mother haul decoration boxes to her car.
I remembered the text message Monica sent me at 11:00 PM that very night: “MICHAEL IS SUCH A GOOD MAN ❤️.” I had grinned at my phone, showing my co-worker how blessed I was to have a mother who adored my future husband. It hadn't been maternal approval; it was the sick thrill of a secret.
The stairwell door squeaked open again. My mother emerged.
In less than three minutes, she had slipped her heels back on, smoothed her beige silk dress, brushed her hair, and perfectly reapplied her dusty-rose lipstick.
I stared at her immaculate face in utter horror. "You stopped to fix your makeup?" I asked, breathless with disbelief. "My life just exploded, and you stopped in front of the mirror to touch up your lipstick?"
"Sandy, darling, I wasn't thinking..." she stammered, holding her hands out.
"How many times, Mom?" I demanded, standing up, ignoring the heavy weight of my dress. "How many times have you slept with my fiancé?"
She wrung her hands, shifting her weight nervously. "Eight... maybe... maybe nine times," she whispered.
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Nine times. Nine deliberate acts of deceit. Nine separate days where both of them looked me in the eye, kissed my cheek, and carried on their disgusting secret.
"The wedding is off," I said flatly. "It's over."
