I didn’t flinch when she said it. Her voice trembled just enough to sound brave. “I’m pregnant with his baby.”
Three hundred guests gasped in unison.
The string quartet fell silent, bows hovering over strings. Cameras froze mid-click. My soon-to-be-husband’s face drained of all color.
He looked like a ghost in his bespoke tuxedo. And me? I smiled.
Because I had been waiting for this. I met Daniel four years ago at a charity gala. The kind where everyone wears masks—both literal and metaphorical—and pretends to be better than they are.
This cathedral today is a sea of white roses; that gala was a sea of black silk and hushed lies. He was charming, almost offensively so. A grin that could melt suspicion, and that night, it melted me.
He found me by the bar, trying to blend into the damask wallpaper. “You look like you don’t belong in a room full of liars,” he said, his voice a low rumble like whiskey over ice. I laughed, a dry sound.
“And what makes you think you’re the exception?”
“Oh, I’m not,” he winked, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m just better at it. But you,” he tilted his head, “you’re not even trying.
You hate this. I can see it.”
“I hate the pretense,” I admitted. “Then,” he offered his hand, “let’s be authentically fake together.
Daniel.”
I took his hand. It was my first mistake. We talked for hours, skipping the speeches and the silent auction.
He spoke of his ambitions, of building an empire. I spoke of art and the books I wanted to write. He listened—really listened.
Or so I thought. And then came her: Ava. Ava didn’t just enter a room; she invaded it.
My best friend since college. Wild, magnetic, always with a secret smile, as if she knew a joke the rest of the world wasn’t in on. She found us on the terrace that night.
“Clara! There you are!” she chimed, hugging me before turning to Daniel. Her eyes swept over him, a fast, sharp appraisal.
“And you must be the one who kidnapped my friend.”
“Just borrowing,” Daniel smiled, raising his hands in surrender. Later that night, at a quiet bar long after the gala ended, Ava raised her glass. “To Clara,” she said, her eyes glittering with a strange danger, “who finally found someone worthy of her intellect.
And to Daniel, who’s brave enough to try.”
I believed her. God help me, I did. For a while, it was perfect.
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