My Groom Kissed His Bestman in Live Stream

I took a breath so deep it made my ribs ache beneath the boned corset of my Vera Wang gown. Then another. My hands found the lipstick tube again—Dior Rouge 999, the shade I'd worn in every major campaign—and I traced the color across my lips with surgical precision. The tremor in my fingers had vanished, replaced by something colder, sharper.

In the mirror, my reflection looked untouched by devastation. Perfect.

I caught Sofia's eye and brought my right hand to my left shoulder, fingers pressed together in a specific pattern—our signal from three years of working together. Record everything. Her eyes widened with understanding, then narrowed with purpose. She gave the smallest nod.

"Position yourself front row, left side," I said, my voice steady as glass. "I want you capturing audience reactions for the behind-the-scenes content."

"Lina—" Sofia started, but I was already moving toward the door.

The first notes of the wedding march filtered through the walls, and somewhere beyond this room, 2.5 million people were waiting to watch me become Mrs. Marcus Thompson. The girl who'd escaped poverty through sheer force of will and strategic image curation, finally getting her fairy tale ending.

What a beautiful lie that had been.

The doors opened, and I stepped into my own perfectly orchestrated nightmare.

The venue was a cathedral of white roses and crystal chandeliers, each detail chosen to photograph flawlessly. Soft light filtered through silk draping, casting everything in that golden-hour glow that made skin luminous on camera. The aisle stretched before me like a runway—which, in essence, it was. I'd walked hundreds of runways. I could walk one more.

My grip tightened on the bouquet of peonies and garden roses as I took my first step. Camera flashes erupted like small stars. I kept my chin lifted at the angle that minimized any hint of a double chin, my smile soft and radiant, the perfect bride.

Marcus stood at the altar in his Tom Ford tuxedo, and God, he looked happy. Genuinely, devastatingly happy. His smile reached his eyes—those warm brown eyes I'd thought I knew. Behind him, Dylan shifted his weight from foot to foot, adjusting his tie. Nerves, anyone would think. Normal best man jitters.

I knew better now.

The livestream counter in my peripheral vision—because of course I'd had them position monitors where I could see them—climbed past 2.5 million. Comments scrolled by in a blur: "She's GLOWING," "This is the most beautiful wedding I've ever seen," "Relationship goals 😍😍😍"

I gave a subtle wave to one of the main cameras, and the comment stream exploded with heart emojis.

Each step brought me closer to Marcus. His eyes never left my face, drinking in the sight of me like a man truly in love. The performance was impeccable. We'd always been good at performing together—coordinating our posts, timing our stories, crafting the narrative of us. He'd taught me to look at him with just the right mix of adoration and desire for the camera. I wondered now if he'd learned that look from Dylan. If the passion I'd tried so hard to capture in our photos was just an echo of something real he shared with someone else.

My father—or rather, the family friend I'd hired to play him, since my actual father had left when I was six—placed my hand in Marcus's. His palm was warm, slightly damp. Nervous? Or excited? The touch that had once sent butterflies through my stomach now felt like a stranger's hand. Foreign. Wrong.

But I smiled, soft and private, the expression of a woman seeing her future husband for the first time as his wife-to-be.

The officiant, an elegant woman with silver hair, began: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of two souls in love, two hearts that have found their home in each other..."

Souls in love. Hearts finding home. The words washed over me as I calculated the perfect moment to strike. Too early, and people might think it was cold feet. Too late, and the impact would be lessened. It had to be precise—the exact moment when everyone was fully invested in the romance, when the anticipation peaked.

When they believed most completely in the lie.

"Marriage is a sacred bond," the officiant continued, "built on trust, honesty, and unwavering commitment to one another."

Trust. Honesty. The words tasted bitter on my tongue though I hadn't spoken them.

Marcus squeezed my hand gently, and I squeezed back, watching something like relief flicker across his face. Did he think he'd gotten away with it? That he could have both his perfect public wife and his secret lover? That I would be content with the scraps of affection he offered between his stolen moments with Dylan?

My mother's voice echoed in my memory: "Presentation is everything, mija. Control the image, control your life."

She'd been right about the first part. But she'd never told me what to do when someone else controlled the truth.

The officiant smiled at us warmly. "Now, we'll begin with the exchange of rings, symbols of your eternal commitment. Marcus, please take Lina's hand."

He did, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a gesture that probably looked tender to the millions watching. The ring box clicked open in Dylan's shaking hands.

And in that moment, with the weight of those two interlocking lies—the ring, the man—pressing against my skin, I felt the last piece of my old self crack and fall away.

The girl who'd believed in fairy tales was gone.

What emerged in her place was something far more dangerous.