My fiancé’s hands gripped my maid of honor’s waist against the crisp white sheets.
"Quiet, she thinks I'm at the firm," David murmured.
Before my palms struck the wood, a rough hand clamped over my mouth.
"Not a sound," a deep voice scraped against my ear, smelling of sharp Tom Ford cologne.
Chloe's husband dragged me into the dark room, tossing his gold wedding band onto the mahogany nightstand.
"Tomorrow, we dismantle their lives," Julian whispered.
"Tonight, you sleep next to him."
****
The anonymous text glared at me from the screen.
*St. Regis. Room 412. Right now.*
I didn't recognize the number. Any normal person would have deleted it. But David had been guarding his phone for weeks—taking calls in the garage with the door shut, claiming late nights at the firm when his car was parked in the driveway by ten.
I shoved my phone into my purse and pushed through the revolving glass doors of the hotel lobby.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor took exactly thirty seconds. I spent every one of them rehearsing what I would say if I was wrong. *Hi, David, I just wanted to see you.* *I was in the neighborhood.* *I missed you.*
When the metal doors parted, I stepped onto plush carpet. My flats made zero noise.
Room 412 sat near the ice machine. The heavy mahogany door rested slightly ajar. A thin slice of warm yellow light cut across the shadowed hallway.
I crept forward. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm, drowning out the soft jazz drifting from the ceiling speakers.
I hovered near the gap, my fingertips grazing the cold brass frame.
A soft sigh drifted through the opening.
"David, wait."
The voice paralyzed me. Chloe. My maid of honor. My best friend since college. The woman who had sat beside me at four a.m. tastings, spitting out cake samples and laughing until we cried, helping me choose between buttercream and fondant for a wedding that was now nine weeks away.
"Quiet," David murmured. "She thinks I'm at the firm."
My fiancé.
I pressed my eye to the crack.
They were tangled in the crisp white sheets. David's hands gripped Chloe's waist, pulling her flush against him. Her blonde hair spilled across the pillows—the same blonde hair I had braided for her at my own bachelorette party, three weeks ago, while she whispered that David was *so lucky* to have found someone like me.
My stomach dropped. The betrayal struck like a physical blow, heavy and suffocating, stealing the air straight out of my lungs.
I raised both hands, ready to shove the door wide open. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break things. I wanted to drag her out of that bed by her perfect blonde hair and ask her, to her face, how long she had been laughing at me behind it.
Before my palms struck the wood, a large hand clamped over my mouth.
"Not a sound." The whisper scraped rough against my ear.
