Three Days Before Our Wedding, He Chose His Mistress

Brycen showed up at seven a.m.

I heard his key in the lock before I saw him. The sound made my shoulders tense, but I didn't move from the kitchen table. I was drinking coffee. Black. The cup was warm between my palms.

He came in like he always did—confident, easy. He stopped when he saw the dress pieces still scattered across the dining table. His face did something complicated. Shock, maybe. Or the performance of shock.

"Lila." His voice was soft. Concerned. "Baby, what happened?"

I took another sip of coffee. Didn't answer.

He came closer, hands spread in that open, harmless way he used when he wanted to seem reasonable. "My mom called me last night. She was hysterical. Said you canceled everything." He laughed, just a little. Uncertain. "I don't know what you think you saw, but—"

"I watched the footage three times," I said.

He stopped. His expression flickered. Then reset into something wounded. "Footage?"

"Dashcam. From the rescue site." I set the cup down. Looked at him directly. "Fourteen thirty-seven. Your car. You and Kaiya. The kiss. The promise that the wedding changes nothing between you."

Silence.

His jaw tightened. Then he shook his head, slow and deliberate. "You're taking it out of context."

"What context makes that okay?"

"She was upset. The disaster, the stress—she needed support. I was being a decent human being." His voice was rising now, frustration bleeding through the concern. "You're blowing this completely out of proportion."

I stood up. Walked to the door. Opened it.

"Lila." His tone shifted. Harder now. Patronizing. "You're not thinking clearly. Stop being dramatic."

I looked at him for a long moment. At the face I'd woken up next to for seven years. The face I'd trusted with everything.

"Leave," I said quietly.

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

He stared at me. Waiting for me to break. To apologize. To take it back.

I didn't.

Finally, he grabbed his jacket off the chair. Walked to the door. Stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. The same one I'd bought him for Christmas.

"You'll call me in a week," he said. Not a question. A certainty. "When you calm down and realize how stupid this is."

He left.

I closed the door. Locked it. Went back to my coffee.

My hands were steady.

---

Serena arrived an hour later with two coffees and a paper bag that smelled like cinnamon rolls.

She didn't knock. She had a key. She came in, looked at the dress pieces, looked at me, and set everything on the counter.

"Okay," she said. She sat down across from me. Pushed one of the coffees in my direction. "Tell me what you need. Not what you think you should need. What you actually need."

I stared at the coffee. Steam rose in slow curls.

"I don't know," I said.

"That's fine. Start with what you know."

So I told her. The mudslide. The footage. The kiss. The promise. Brycen's certainty that I would come crawling back.

Serena listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I never liked him."

"I know."

"I mean it. From the beginning. He always looked at you like you were a resource." She leaned forward. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't want to see him again."

"Good. What else?"

I thought about it. About seven years of blueprints with his name on them. About the awards he'd accepted while I stood in the back of the room. About my mother's necklace, the one I'd given him because I trusted him with the most sacred thing I owned.

"I want my work back," I said. "I want people to know it was mine."

Serena smiled. Sharp and fierce. "Then let's make that happen."

---

I went to the chapel at noon to cancel the venue booking.

The coordinator was apologetic. Sympathetic. She processed the cancellation without asking questions. I signed the forms. Paid the fee.

I was walking back to my car when my phone buzzed.

Social media notification. Kaiya Mendoza posted a new photo.

I almost didn't look.

But something made me open it.

The image loaded slowly. Kaiya's face, soft focus. Smiling. And at her throat—

My mother's necklace.

The diamond pendant caught the light, unmistakable. The delicate platinum chain I'd held at my mother's funeral. The one piece of her I had left.

The caption read: *cherished 🤍*

My hand went very still on the phone.

I stood there in the chapel parking lot, staring at the screen, feeling something cold and precise settle in my chest.

Not rage. Not grief.

Clarity.

I got in my car. Started the engine. Pulled up Conrad Burns's number—the one he'd called from last night, still in my recent calls.

I stared at it for a long moment.

Then I pressed dial.

He answered on the second ring.

"I need your help," I said.