Behind the photo, a timestamp appeared: 10:02 PM, December 1, 2023. A message from Evelyn flickered in the corner: “Make sure she signs before the board meets.”
The screen went black for a moment, then a new file opened. It was a video of the wedding rehearsal. The camera panned across the altar, the same gold candles, the same white roses. In the corner, a man in a suit—Caleb’s brother, Jason—was whispering into a phone.
“She’s nervous. Make sure the veil is loose. The tear will get her attention.”
The footage showed a hand slipping a small blade into the seam of the veil, a deliberate cut that would cause it to rip as I walked down the aisle.
The next clip showed me in the bridal suite, my makeup being touched up. I turned, and a woman I didn’t recognize—short hair, a scar on her left cheek—leaned in close.
“You’re going to love the surprise, Amelia.”
The screen flickered again, and the final file opened. It was a text message thread between Caleb and someone labeled “J.” The messages were short, clipped.
“She’s ready.”
“Good. Once she’s on the floor, we’ll have the board vote.”
The last line was a timestamp: 09:45 PM, the night before the wedding.
The projector hummed, the image still on the screen, the room heavy with the weight of betrayal.
After the Shock
Silence settled over the chapel like a thick blanket. The organist’s hands hovered over the keys, unsure whether to resume. The pastor stared at the screen, his mouth opening and closing without sound.
