Ten years ago, on my wedding day, my husband’s 12-year-old cousin threw rotten eggs all over my white wedding dress instead of confetti. When I complained, my mother-in-law said, “She’s just a kid. Stop overreacting.”

By 2:00 PM, the main bridal suite on the second floor of the manor looked like a war zone of hairspray, half-empty mimosa flutes, and designer garment bags.

I had been summoned by Beverly via an imperious text message: *BRING THE EXTRA STEAMER TO THE SUITE NOW. CHLOE’S VEIL HAS CREASES.*

When I walked into the room, holding the handheld commercial steamer I had purchased with my own money that morning, Chloe was screaming at a terrified young makeup artist.

“I look like a bloated corpse!” Chloe shrieked, swatting the artist's contouring brush away. “Are you blind? I told you Charlotte Tilbury, not this drugstore garbage! Fix it or you’re not getting paid a single cent!”

The makeup artist, barely twenty years old, was trembling, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

Beverly was sitting on a chaise lounge, nursing a vodka tonic. “Chloe, darling, your blood pressure. You don't want to look flushed for Julian.”

Beverly turned her head, noticing me standing in the doorway.

“About time, Marissa,” Beverly snapped, pointing to an antique armoire where Chloe’s twenty-foot cathedral veil was hung. “Steam every inch of the lace. And make sure the water doesn't spit. If you leave a water spot on that Belgian lace, I’ll have Richard deduct it from your household allowance.”

I set the steamer on the table, plugged it in, and calmly began to work.

Chloe leaned back in the makeup chair, eyeing me through the mirror with a smug, feline grin.

“You’re surprisingly obedient today, Marissa,” Chloe remarked, admiring her French-manicured hands. “I guess Richard finally gave you the talk about knowing your place.”

“Richard and I had a very illuminating conversation last night,” I replied smoothly, the hiss of steam filling the silence.

“Good,” Chloe sneered. “Because after today, Julian’s family is setting Richard up with the regional distribution contract for Vance Logistics. You should be down on your knees thanking me. If it wasn't for me marrying Julian, you and Richard would be stuck living in that suburban shoebox forever.”

“Is that right?” I asked, gliding the steamer nozzle an inch above the delicate lace. “And does Julian know about your business acumen, Chloe?”

Chloe’s eyes flickered, just for a millisecond. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that it takes a very talented woman to manage personal expenses,” I said, my voice sweet, conversational, completely non-threatening. “Especially when one has a personal account in the Cayman Islands registered under the name *Luxe Horizon Holdings*.”

The color instantly drained from Chloe’s face.

The sneer vanished. The makeup artist froze, brush hovering in the air.

Even Beverly paused, her glass stopping halfway to her mouth. “What did you say, Marissa?”

Chloe sprang out of the makeup chair, her silk robe billowing around her. She marched over to me, grabbing the cord of the steamer and yanking it out of the wall.

“Get out,” Chloe hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, her eyes wide with sudden, feral panic. “Get the hell out of my room.”

“Chloe, what is she talking about?” Beverly demanded, sitting up straight.

“Nothing, Mom!” Chloe snapped, never taking her wild, terrified eyes off mine. “She’s just trying to play mind games because she’s a jealous, miserable bitch! Get out, Marissa!”

I calmly set the hot steamer on the heat-resistant pad. I smoothed down the lapels of my blazer.

“Have a wonderful ceremony, Chloe,” I whispered, leaning in just close enough so she could smell my perfume—the exact same lavender scent I had worn on my wedding day ten years ago. “You look almost as stunning as I did... before the eggs.”

I turned on my heel and walked out of the room, leaving Chloe standing in the center of the suite, hyperventilating, the icy terror finally sinking into her bones.

Down the hallway, Richard was waiting by the stairs, looking flushed and stressed in his tuxedo.

“What were you doing in there?” Richard demanded, grabbing my upper arm. “I heard Chloe yelling. Did you say something to her? Did you ruin her mood?”

I looked down at his hand gripping my sleeve.

“Let go of me, Richard,” I said.

There was no anger in my voice. No frustration. Only an absolute, echoing void.

Richard blinked, startled by the sheer authority in my tone. His fingers slowly uncurled, releasing me.

“Marissa, please,” he pleaded, his voice shifting back into that pathetic, whiny register. “Arthur Vance is downstairs right now talking to his investment bankers. Just play nice for three more hours. That’s all I’m asking. Three hours, and our lives change forever.”

I smiled at my husband. It was the warmest, most terrifying smile I had ever given him.