Rain of Betrayal

"She picked the dress herself," Alex said, his tone defensive. "It has nothing to do with you."

Celeste traced the ruined embroidery on the sofa cushions. "I just didn't expect her to like the exact same things I do."

"I wanted camellias," I said.

Alex stiffened.

Two months ago, he had sat at the dining table, crossing out my mother's favorite flower on the design sketch. *Camellias are too bright,* he had told me. *Lilies of the valley suit you better.*

I had smiled that day, thrilled he was finally participating in the wedding plans. Now, the truth sat bitter on my tongue. He wasn't choosing my flowers. He was resurrecting her dress.

The next morning, Celeste moved through our kitchen like she owned the title deed. She bypassed the light roast I drank, reaching straight for the top-left cabinet to grab Alex's preferred dark beans.

When Alex emerged from the bathroom, his hair dripping wet, she handed him a towel instead of the hair dryer. He never dried his hair right away. I had spent six years thinking he was just lazy.

Alex winced, shifting his weight to his left side.

Celeste immediately dropped to her knees. She peeled the backing off a medicated patch and pressed it firmly against his right calf. "Still aching from the dampness?"

"Yeah. The rain always makes it flare up," he murmured.

I stared at his leg. "You never told me it hurt."

Every time it rained, his temper would sour. Whenever I asked if he felt sick, he would snap, *It's nothing. Stop making a fuss.*

He didn't hate showing weakness. He just never wanted to show it to me.

I grabbed my purse from the counter. "Make your own coffee. I'm going to the office."

Alex scowled. "Let her go," he told Celeste. "The more you coddle her, the worse her temper gets."

Director Miller slid my resignation letter into his top drawer. "I'll keep this quiet until the end of the week. But why now, Iris? You turned Einar Voss down three times."

"I ran out of things to give up," I said.

"Reykjavik is a long way from New York."

"That's exactly why I'm going."

When I returned to the apartment that evening, half of the walk-in closet was bare.

Celeste's designer luggage sat neatly in the empty spaces. My clothes lay in a wrinkled heap on the guest bed, burying the immigration documents I needed for tomorrow.

Alex leaned against the doorframe. "Just fold yours up for now. You can hang them back up when she leaves."

I didn't argue. I opened my hard-shell suitcase and placed my clothes inside, one by one.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I just think people should pack their own things," I replied.

The following afternoon, the hotel ballroom echoed with the sound of scaffolding.

Mr. Davis, the venue manager, adjusted his glasses. "Let's review the setup before we finalize the transfer. Lily of the valley flower wall, artificial rain curtain, Boston cobblestone backdrop, and the 'Waiting for the Rain to Stop' theme."

My fingers went numb against the table.

A young assistant hurried over, handing Davis a yellowed folder. "Sir, I pulled the original 2017 planning file from the archives to check the lighting cues."

Davis opened it. I saw the bride's name printed at the top in bold black ink.

*Celeste Moreau.*

The venue, the flowers, the music, the dessert flavors. Everything matched tomorrow's schedule perfectly.

"Let's test the audio," Davis said.

The speakers crackled. Alex's voice filled the cavernous room, younger and fiercely earnest.

*No matter what city you live in, I will remember the weather. If it rains, I'll pick you up. You don't need an umbrella, because I will always find you.*

I stared at the artificial rain curtain hanging above the stage. He planned to recite his vows to his ex-girlfriend while looking me in the eye. He couldn't even be bothered to change the script.

The ballroom doors swung open.

Celeste strolled in, her eyes lighting up at the floral arrangements. She thought I was just here to confirm the timeline. She walked straight onto the stage, stopping right beneath the rain curtain.

She spread her arms wide as the artificial drizzle began to fall behind her. She looked radiant. She looked exactly like the bride.

Footsteps pounded against the marble floor. Alex sprinted into the hall, his face pale.

"Celeste!" he shouted. "Your studio just called. The wind blew the windows open. Your mother's vintage performance costumes are getting soaked."

Celeste gasped, covering her mouth.

Alex turned on his heel, ready to bolt.

"Mr. Mercer," Davis called out, stepping in his path. "The rain curtain equipment hasn't been properly calibrated yet. We need you to sign off."

"I'll cover whatever damages there are," Alex snapped.

He grabbed the stack of heavy-duty waterproof tarps the event staff had prepared for the outdoor reception. He didn't leave a single one behind.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. "You stay and watch the run-through."

"Okay," I said.

I picked up the pen and signed my name on the final line of the venue transfer agreement.

Late that night, my phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. A text from Alex lit up the screen.

*Costumes are safe. Not a single one got ruined. You watch the hotel stuff yourself, don't rely on me for everything.*

I locked the screen. I didn't reply.

I walked down the hall to the study to grab my mother's weather journals. She had tracked the rain for twenty-seven years before she died. They were the only things I had left of her.

I pushed the door open.

Celeste's shopping bags and shoe boxes covered every surface. The wooden shelves were completely empty.

Panic spiked in my chest. "Where are they?" I whispered.

I checked the living room. I checked the hallway closets.

Finally, I opened the door to the enclosed balcony. The space was freezing. The landlord hadn't fixed the roof leak yet.

A gust of wind slammed into my face. The balcony window was wide open.

My mother's twenty-seven journals sat stacked on a patio chair right beneath the sill.

The sky cracked with thunder.

The first heavy drop of rain slipped through the open window, landing directly on the cover of the top journal.