I stood there for a long moment, staring at that locked door. In three years together, Nathaniel had never refused to let me help him when he was sick; he was the type of man who wanted to be babied when he had so much as a headache. But again, I chose trust over suspicion.
«Feel better,» I said to the door. «I love you.»
«Love you too,» the words came a beat too late.
The truth has a way of revealing itself, like water finding cracks in a foundation. Two days before my wedding, it came flooding through. I was at the office trying to focus on a manuscript about medieval poetry when my phone rang. The caller ID showed my mother’s number.
«Celeste, darling, I need a favor.»
«Of course. What’s wrong?»
«I left some wedding programs in my car, and I’m having lunch with Mrs. Chin from the Flower Committee. Could you swing by the house and grab them? They’re in my Mercedes in a manila envelope on the passenger seat.»
«Sure, no problem.» The drive to my parents’ house took twenty minutes through D.C. traffic. I used my key to get through the front gate and parked behind my mother’s car. The Mercedes was unlocked, typical for our safe neighborhood.
I opened the passenger door and immediately saw the manila envelope, but as I reached for it, something else caught my eye. A small, black leather notebook had slipped between the seats. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except that my name was written on the cover in my mother’s handwriting. My hands shook as I opened it.
The first page was dated three months ago, just after my engagement announcement. Nathaniel Reid is everything I should have married. Handsome, successful, from the right family. Instead, I settled for William and his middle-class ministry. But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I deserve something beautiful for once.
The notebook slipped from my fingers. I sat in the driver’s seat of my mother’s car, staring at her handwriting as the world tilted sideways. With trembling hands, I picked up the notebook and continued reading.
He looks at me the way William used to before the years and the routine wore him down. When Nathaniel compliments my dress or my cooking, I remember what it felt like to be desired. Today he stayed after Celeste left for work. We talked for hours about literature and travel. He said I was wasted on small-town life. He’s right.
I know this is wrong. I know what it would do to Celeste if she found out. But when was the last time anyone chose me? Really chose me—not out of duty or convention, but out of want. Page after page, entry after entry, my mother’s careful handwriting documented the slow, deliberate seduction of my fiancé.
He kissed me today. God help me, I kissed him back. We made love in his apartment while Celeste was at her book club. He said I was more passionate than any woman he’d ever been with. I felt alive again. Nathaniel says after the wedding, we’ll find a way to be together. He says marrying Celeste is just what’s expected of him, but his heart belongs to me now.
The final entry was dated yesterday. Tomorrow night, the night before the wedding, he’s coming over while William is at his bachelor party planning meeting. Our last time together before Celeste becomes his wife. After that, we’ll have to be more careful. But we’ve come too far to stop now.
I closed the notebook and sat in perfect stillness. Around me, the suburban afternoon continued: sprinklers watering manicured lawns, children riding bicycles, dogs barking at mail carriers. Normal life was happening while my entire world crumbled. How long? The question echoed in my head. How long have they been laughing at me behind my back?
I thought about every dinner where they’d sat across from each other, every family gathering where they’d exchanged looks I’d been too trusting to interpret correctly. I thought about my father planning to walk me down the aisle tomorrow, blissfully unaware that his wife was sleeping with the groom. I thought about all the ways I’d been fooled, manipulated, and betrayed by the two people who were supposed to love me most in the world.
That’s when the tears finally came—hot, angry tears that tasted like salt and betrayal. I cried until my chest ached, until my mascara ran in dark streams down my cheeks, until there was nothing left inside me but a cold, crystalline clarity. They had chosen each other over me. Now, I would choose myself over them.
I didn’t go home that night. Instead, I checked into the Willard InterContinental under a false name, paying cash and telling the desk clerk I was surprising my husband for our anniversary. The lie came easily; apparently, I was learning to be as good at deception as my mother and fiancé.
In my hotel room, I spread everything out on the king-sized bed like a detective organizing evidence: my mother’s journal, screenshots of Nathaniel’s recent credit card statements (we’d combined our accounts for wedding expenses), and a growing list of all the signs I’d missed. The expensive cologne smell in my parents’ kitchen. The lipstick on the wine glass in Nathaniel’s apartment. His sudden expertise in my mother’s favorite wine. The way they’d both been so insistent about traditional wedding vows, probably because they knew I might say something in personal vows that would expose their guilt.
I ordered room service and sat cross-legged on the bed, eating overpriced pasta while I planned their destruction. The old Celeste would have confronted them privately. She would have cried and demanded explanations and probably would have ended up being manipulated into forgiveness. The old Celeste believed in second chances and the power of love to overcome anything.
But the old Celeste was dead. She’d died reading her mother’s journal in a Mercedes-Benz while her world collapsed around her. The new Celeste understood that some betrayals were too profound for private resolution. This wasn’t just about a cheating fiancé or an unfaithful mother; this was about two people who had conspired to make me complicit in my own humiliation, who had planned to continue their affair after my wedding, who had stolen not just my happiness but my dignity. They wanted to play games. Fine. I’d learned from the best.
I called my assistant at Meridian Publishing. «Jenna, I need you to do me a favor. Can you compile a guest list for everyone who’s coming to my wedding tomorrow? Email addresses, phone numbers, social media handles—everything.»
«Of course. Is everything okay? You sound…»
«Everything’s perfect,» I said, and for the first time in days, I meant it. «I just want to make sure everyone has all the information they need for tomorrow.»
Next, I called my college roommate, Priya, who worked as a freelance journalist in New York. «Celeste! Oh my god, your wedding is tomorrow! Are you freaking out? I am so excited.»
«Priya, I need a favor. And I need you not to ask questions.»
«Okay…» Her voice grew cautious. «What kind of favor?»
«I need you to be at St. Michael’s Cathedral tomorrow with your camera and your press credentials. Something newsworthy is going to happen, and I want it documented.»
«Celeste, you’re scaring me.»
«I’m not the one who should be scared.»
The final call was the hardest. I dialed my father’s number, knowing he’d be home from his meeting. «Celeste! Sweetheart, you shouldn’t be calling me. Isn’t it bad luck for the father of the bride to talk to his daughter the night before the wedding?»
«Dad,» I said, and my voice broke just slightly. «I love you. No matter what happens tomorrow, I need you to remember that I love you and that none of this is your fault.»
«Honey, you’re worrying me. What’s wrong?»
«Nothing’s wrong, Dad. Everything’s finally going to be right.» After I hung up, I sat in the hotel room’s silence for a long time, thinking about justice and revenge and the difference between the two. Revenge was about causing pain. Justice was about revealing the truth. Tomorrow, I would serve justice with a smile.
I woke up at dawn and ordered coffee from room service, sitting by the window in my hotel bathrobe while the sun painted Washington, D.C. in shades of gold and pink. In six hours, I was supposed to become Mrs. Nathaniel Reid. Instead, I was about to become something much more powerful: a woman who refused to be anyone’s fool.
My phone had been buzzing all morning with texts from my mother. Good morning, beautiful bride! I hope you slept well. I can’t wait to see you walk down that aisle today. The flowers are perfect, the musicians are setting up, and I confirmed with the photographer. Everything is exactly as it should be. I love you so much, sweetheart. Today is going to be the most beautiful day of your life. Each message felt like a knife wrapped in silk.
At nine, I took a long shower, letting the hot water wash away the last traces of the woman I used to be. When I stepped out, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Really looked, maybe for the first time in months. My dark hair, so much like my mother’s. My blue eyes, inherited from my father. My face, which had always been called pretty but never remarkable. Today, I would be remarkable.
I drove to the cathedral slowly, taking the long way through downtown D.C. The morning was crisp and clear—perfect wedding weather. St. Michael’s Cathedral looked magnificent in the morning light, its gothic spires reaching toward heaven like prayer made stone. Cars were already arriving: early guests, vendors, family members getting ready for what they thought would be a celebration.
I parked in the lot behind the cathedral and sat for a moment, watching people I’d known my entire life bustle around in preparation for my special day. Mrs. Chin from the flower committee. Mr. Rodriguez, who’d been our neighbor for twenty years. Nathaniel’s law school friends, laughing and adjusting their ties. All these people who cared about me, who had taken time out of their Saturday to witness what they believed would be the beginning of my happily ever after. They deserved to know the truth too.
I gathered my wedding dress, shoes, and makeup bag and walked into the cathedral through the side entrance that led to the bridal preparation room. The small space was already bustling with activity. My matron of honor, Kathleen, was hanging up her dress, and my two bridesmaids were setting up a coffee station and arranging flowers.
«Celeste!» Kathleen rushed over to hug me. «Oh my god, you’re glowing! How are you feeling?»
«Like today is going to change everything,» I said, and it was the most honest thing I’d said in days.
«Where’s your mother? I thought she’d be here by now.» I checked my phone. No new messages from Diana since her sickeningly sweet good-morning texts.
«She’s probably at home getting ready,» I said. «You know how she likes everything to be perfect.» What I didn’t say was that I knew exactly where my mother was because I’d been tracking Nathaniel’s phone since last night using our shared account. He’d spent the night at our family home, leaving at 6:30 this morning, probably to avoid being seen by neighbors or my father. One last betrayal for old times’ sake.
As my bridesmaids helped me into my dress, I felt strangely calm. The ivory silk slipped over my skin like armor, and when they fastened the dozens of tiny pearl buttons up my back, I felt myself transforming into someone new, someone stronger. The dress had been my mother’s choice, of course—a traditional A-line gown with long sleeves, a cathedral train, and enough beadwork to rival a constellation.
I’d wanted something simpler, more modern, but Diana had insisted. «This dress will photograph beautifully,» she’d said during the fitting. «Classic elegance never goes out of style.» Now I understood why she’d been so invested in how I looked. She needed me to look perfect for the photographs that would document her son-in-law’s humiliation.
Kathleen pinned my veil in place, the same fingertip-length veil my grandmother had worn. «You look absolutely stunning, Celeste. Nathaniel is going to die when he sees you.»
«I certainly hope so,» I murmured. At 11:30, the photographer arrived to take pre-ceremony shots. I smiled and posed, letting him capture what he thought were images of bridal joy but were actually photos of a woman preparing for war.
At 11:45, my father arrived. «My beautiful girl!» Dad stood in the doorway of the bridal room, resplendent in his formal black tuxedo, his silver hair perfectly styled. At fifty-eight, Pastor William Darin was still a handsome man—tall, dignified, with the kind of genuine warmth that had made him beloved by our congregation for decades. He was also a man whose world was about to collapse.
«You look radiant, sweetheart,» he said, his eyes growing misty. «I can hardly believe my little girl is getting married.» The bridesmaids and photographer tactfully stepped aside to give us privacy.
I took my father’s hands—these strong, gentle hands that had blessed countless couples, that had held me when I scraped my knees as a child, that had taught me to drive and to pray and to believe in goodness. «Dad, I need to tell you something before we walk down that aisle.»
«Of course, honey. What is it?»
I pulled my mother’s journal from my bridal bag and placed it in his hands. «I found this in Mom’s car yesterday.» He looked confused as he opened it, but I watched his face change as he began to read. The color drained from his cheeks, his lips parted slightly, and his hands began to tremble.
«Celeste…» His voice was barely a whisper. «This can’t be. Your mother would never…»
«Read the dates, Dad. Read all of it.» He sank into a chair, still holding the journal, his eyes scanning page after page of his wife’s betrayal. I knelt beside him, my wedding dress pooling around us like spilled cream.
«How long have you known?» he asked finally.
«Since yesterday. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.» He looked up at me, this man who had built his entire ministry on the sanctity of marriage and family, and I saw something break behind his eyes.
«What are we going to do?» he whispered.
«We’re going to walk down that aisle,» I said firmly. «We’re going to let everyone see exactly who Diana Darin and Nathaniel Reid really are.»
«Celeste, no. Think about this. The scandal, the humiliation…»
«The humiliation isn’t ours to carry, Dad. It’s theirs.» He stared at me for a long moment, and I could see him grappling with thirty years of conditioning that said family problems should be handled privately, quietly, behind closed doors.
«There are two hundred people out there,» he said.
«Two hundred people who love us and deserve to know the truth before they witness what they think is a sacred ceremony.»
«Your reputation…»
«My reputation will be that I refused to be made a fool of. That I chose dignity over silence.» A knock at the door interrupted us.
«Five minutes, everyone!» called the wedding coordinator.
