A Toast to a Stranger

The head designer stood frozen, holding the veil, her expression awkward.

"Ms. Hayes, this..."

"It's fine," I said, gazing at my reflection in the full-length mirror—at the ridiculously, painfully overdressed woman staring back. "I'll wait for him."

The wedding dress was heavy, its corsetry so tight it was hard to breathe.

The antique clock on the wall ticked away the minutes with a deadening rhythm.

An assistant brought me my fourth cup of Earl Grey. It had gone cold, a bitter film forming on the surface.

I glanced at my phone.

Eight p.m.

He had promised he’d be right back. He'd left me waiting for twelve hours in a climate-controlled cage.

A dull ache flared deep in my lower abdomen. My face went pale, and I doubled over, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of the gown.

Cold sweat beaded on my forehead.

With a trembling hand, I found Felix’s number in my contacts and pressed dial.

The long, lonely rings echoed through the empty salon.

Just as it was about to go to voicemail, someone answered.

"Felix, my stomach feels a little..."

"Hello?"

It wasn't Felix’s deep baritone. It was a woman's voice, light and coy, followed by a soft giggle.

My breath hitched.

It was Blair.

"Oh, it's Avalon."

The faint clinking of silverware on porcelain drifted through the line.

Blair laughed, a lazy, satisfied sound dripping with undisguised triumph.

"This kitchen is just massive. Felix was worried I'd get lonely rattling around in this huge estate, so he's making me truffle pasta."

The line went dead.

The persistent, dragging pain in my abdomen gnawed at my composure.

I sat on the sofa, motionless, for a very long time.

I was only roused from my stupor when the designer gently asked if I needed them to call a car. I stripped off the gown and changed back into my own clothes.

The Vanderbilt Hamptons estate was nearly an hour's drive from the city.

Rain lashed against the windshield, the Tesla's wipers fighting a frantic, losing battle as I sped down the coastal highway.

By the time I reached the wrought-iron gates, my Louboutins were ruined, soaked through with rain and mud.

The rusted gate was ajar, as if welcoming its former mistress home.

I picked my way through the mire toward the main house’s floor-to-ceiling window.

The house was blazing with light.

Through the rain-streaked glass, I could see everything.

Felix had shed his suit jacket. He was in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

He stood in the open-plan kitchen, holding a pan, his head bent as he murmured something to the woman beside him.

Blair was in a silk nightgown, her head tilted up, a radiant smile on her face.

She was holding a Ragdoll cat.

Felix hated cats.

We had lived together for five years, and he’d claim a severe allergy, waiting in the car if I so much as glanced at a cat cafe.

But now, as he rounded the kitchen island, he didn't flinch. He reached out and stroked the cat's head as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Blair seized the opportunity, tugging at his sleeve and cooing softly.

The scene was so sickeningly domestic it made my presence—as his fiancée—a complete farce.

I stood in the rain, a spectator to their cozy life, for a long time.

So long my fingers grew numb from the cold, so long the sharp pain in my abdomen subsided into a dull, menacing throb.

I walked around to the front of the house and pushed open the heavy oak door.

The laughter inside died instantly.