After My Groom Left Me at the Altar for His Pregnant Mistress

I'm cutting fabric when the door opens. I don't look up. The shears are sharp. The cut needs to be clean.

"You don't lock your door," a voice says.

I stop. I know that voice. I heard it on television. Soft. Trembling. Designed to sound wounded.

I set the shears down. I turn.

Cecelia Larson stands in the doorway. She's wearing white. A dress that looks expensive but isn't. Her hair is loose. Her face is carefully made up. She looks fragile. Breakable.

She's not.

"This is a private workspace," I say.

"I know." She steps inside. She closes the door behind her. "I wanted to talk. Just the two of us."

I don't move. "There's nothing to talk about."

"I think there is." She walks slowly through the studio. Her fingers trail along the worktable. She touches a bolt of silk. She picks up a sketch. She sets it down. "You're very talented. Stefan told me that."

I don't respond.

She moves to the dress form. The piece I've been working on for three days. Ivory wool. Clean lines. A neckline that doesn't apologize. She touches the fabric. Her fingers press too hard. She's wrinkling it.

"Don't," I say.

She looks at me. Her eyes are wide. Innocent. "I'm just looking."

"You're touching my work. I asked you not to."

She pulls her hand back. Slowly. Like I've offended her. "I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry. I just... I wanted to see what you're doing. Stefan talks about you sometimes. He feels so guilty. He says you're struggling."

I pick up the shears again. I return to the cutting table. "I'm not struggling."

"He says you are." Her voice is softer now. Almost kind. "He says you're pretending to be fine. But you're not. You're embarrassed. Everyone saw what happened. Everyone knows he chose me."

I keep cutting. The blade slides through the fabric. Smooth. Even.

"I didn't want to hurt you," Cecelia continues. She's moving again. Circling. "But I had to tell the truth. I was pregnant. He was the father. What was I supposed to do?"

"Leave," I say.

She stops. "What?"

"Leave my studio. Now."

Her face changes. Just for a second. The softness hardens. Then it's back. The mask. "I'm trying to be kind. I thought we could talk. Woman to woman. I thought—"

"You thought wrong."

She's silent for a moment. Then she laughs. It's light. Brittle. "You really think you're better than me, don't you?"

I set the shears down. I meet her eyes. "I think you should leave."

"You're pathetic." Her voice is sharper now. The performance is slipping. "You spent twenty-five years chasing a man who didn't love you. And now you're hiding in this sad little studio pretending you're an artist. It's embarrassing."

I walk toward her. "Get out."

She moves to the rack. She grabs a finished piece. A jacket. Charcoal cashmere. Weeks of work. She holds it up. She looks at it. She laughs.

"This?" She shakes it. "This is what you're so proud of? It's boring. It's derivative. It's—"

I step forward. I reach for the jacket. "Put it down."

She pulls it away. She's smiling now. Wide. Cruel. "Make me."

I move closer. I take the jacket from her hands. Firmly. Not rough. Just firm.

She lunges.

Her hands go for my face. Nails out. I step back. Instinct. She's off-balance. Her heel catches on the lighting rig. The one I set up this morning. The one I meant to move.

She falls.

Hard.

She hits the concrete. Her head snaps back. There's a sound. Dull. Wet. She screams.

I don't move. I'm holding the jacket. I'm staring.

Blood. On the floor. Spreading.

Cecelia is on her side. Curled. Her hands go to her stomach. She's sobbing. Loud. Gasping.

"You pushed me," she screams. "You pushed me!"

"I didn't touch you."

"You pushed me!" She's rocking now. Her dress is stained red. "The baby. Oh God. The baby."

I pull out my phone. My hands are shaking. I dial. Emergency services. I give the address. I tell them someone fell. I tell them there's blood.

Cecelia is still screaming. "She pushed me. She tried to hurt me. She wanted to kill my baby."

I hang up. I set the phone down. I look at her.

She's watching me. Through the tears. Through the blood. She's watching.

And she's smiling.

The sirens come fast. Paramedics. Police. They swarm the studio. They kneel beside Cecelia. They ask questions. She sobs through every answer.

"She attacked me. She grabbed me. She pushed me down. I tried to leave. She wouldn't let me."

An officer turns to me. "Is that true?"

"No."

"Then what happened?"

"She came here uninvited. She touched my work. I asked her to leave. She grabbed a piece off the rack. I took it back. She lunged at me. I stepped away. She tripped."

He writes it down. He doesn't look convinced.

They load Cecelia onto a stretcher. She's still crying. Still clutching her stomach. She looks at me as they carry her past.

"Why did you do this?" she whispers. Loud enough for everyone to hear. "I just wanted to talk."

I don't answer.

They take her away. The officer stays. He asks more questions. I answer them. My voice is steady. Calm. I tell him about the security camera. The one I installed last week. The one pointed at the door and the worktable.

He looks up. "You have footage?"

"Yes."

He nods. "We'll need a copy."

"Of course."

He leaves. The studio is empty again. Silent.

I walk to the cutting table. I pick up the shears. I look at the fabric. The line I was cutting is crooked now. Ruined.

I set the shears down. I sit. I press my mother's ring to my lips.

My phone buzzes. A text. Stefan.

*What the hell did you do?*

I don't respond. I turn the phone off. I close my eyes.

The light from the window is still golden. Still warm.

But the room feels cold.