When My Groom’s Mistress Wore a Wedding Dress

Murphy showed up at my office at seven with two coffees and a laptop I'd never seen before.

"Burner," she said, setting it on my desk. "Bought it with cash three blocks from here."

I took the coffee. It was still hot. She'd timed it perfectly.

We sat side by side in the blue light of the empty office. I plugged in the transmitter. Murphy pulled up the audio file—the one I'd recorded in that Tribeca hallway with my phone pressed to the door. Four minutes and seventeen seconds of Jace's voice saying things I would never unhear.

"You're the one I owed, Christina. I've always known that."

"She would never need to know. She doesn't ask the right questions."

Murphy reformatted it. Cleaned the background hum. Boosted the clarity. Her fingers moved fast across the keyboard. She worked in sound design for theater. She knew what she was doing.

"Plaza's system uses a standard Bluetooth protocol," she said without looking up. "I mapped the transmitter to their ballroom specs last week. You'll pair it from your phone. Press play. That's it."

I watched the waveform flatten and spike on the screen.

"Test it," I said.

She connected a small speaker. Hit play.

Jace's voice filled my office. Soft. Intimate. The voice he used when he meant what he was saying.

I listened to the whole thing. Murphy sat beside me and said nothing.

When it ended, I closed the laptop.

"Flight's confirmed?" Murphy asked.

"JFK. Saturday. Eight p.m."

"Go bag?"

"In the trunk."

She nodded once. She didn't ask if I was sure. She knew better.

We sat there for a while in the quiet. Outside, the city hummed. Taxis. Sirens. The sound of people going somewhere that mattered to them.

Murphy stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. At the door, she turned back.

"Saph."

I looked up.

"I'm really proud of you."

I didn't trust my voice. I nodded instead.

She left. I stayed another hour, staring at the laptop, before I locked it in my desk drawer and went home.

***

The bridal boutique smelled like lilies and cold air conditioning. I stood on the platform in a white dress I didn't feel anything about. The seamstress pinned the hem. The lace scratched my collarbone.

In the mirror, I looked like someone getting married. Hair pinned. Lipstick neat. A woman in a gown that cost more than most people's cars.

I felt nothing.

The bell above the door chimed.

I didn't turn. But I saw her in the mirror. Christina Dixon. Blonde. Delicate. Wearing a cream-colored dress that probably cost what I used to make in a month.

She smiled at the attendant. "I'm just browsing. Don't mind me."

She positioned herself at the mirror two feet from my platform. Close enough to be seen. Far enough to look accidental.

She ran her fingers over a rack of gowns. Silk. Tulle. Lace that looked like spiderwebs.

"Oh," she said lightly, glancing up. "Sapphire. What a surprise."

I didn't answer.

She tilted her head. Studied me in the mirror. "Your dress is beautiful. Really. You must be exhausted, though. Planning a wedding practically alone."

The seamstress adjusted a pin at my waist. I stood still.

Christina pulled a gown from the rack. Ivory. Beaded bodice. Almost identical to mine.

"Jace has been so busy lately," she continued. Her voice was soft. Sympathetic. "All those late nights. I don't know how you manage."

I met her eyes in the mirror. She was smiling.

The seamstress stepped back. "I'll get the veil. One moment."

We were alone.

Christina held the gown up to her body. Turned side to side. "Do you think this would suit me?"

"No," I said.

She laughed. Light. Breathy. "You're probably right." She hung it back on the rack. Then she pulled another. White. Simpler. A zipper up the back.

She stepped into the dressing area. Left the curtain half open.

"Sapphire?" Her voice floated out. "Could you help me? The zipper's stuck."

I stepped off the platform. Walked to the curtain. She stood with her back to me, holding the dress closed at her chest.

I took the zipper. Pulled it up slowly. The fabric tightened across her shoulders.

I leaned close. My breath touched her ear.

"I have enough evidence to send your father to federal prison," I said quietly. "And enough shares to make sure Jace Sullivan never chairs another board meeting."

Her spine went rigid.

I smoothed the fabric at her shoulders. Adjusted the seam.

"That dress doesn't suit you," I said.

I stepped back.

In the mirror, Christina's face was white. Her mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.

I walked back to my platform. The seamstress returned with the veil. I let her pin it to my hair.

Behind me, Christina stood frozen in a dress she would never buy.

I looked at myself in the mirror. A bride. Composed. Perfect.

Saturday couldn't come fast enough.