If you’d walked into the venue at 5:30 p.m. on August 3rd, you’d have thought you were stepping into a scene from the perfect indie romance film.
Forty-three guests, all carefully chosen.
Soft jazz humming through the vintage speakers.
Sunset light pouring through old industrial windows and spilling across polished concrete floors.
Marcus Chen stood at the center of it all, finally exhaling after years of grinding his way up from nothing.
At thirty-four, Marcus had earned this moment the hard way. He’d spent years as a freelance consultant, sleeping in airports between cheap red-eyes, taking every underpaid gig that might lead to something bigger.
There were months he’d lived off instant noodles and black coffee so he wouldn’t fall behind on rent.
Now, finally, he had:
- A consulting business that paid well
- A small but growing client list that respected him
- A fiancée who’d stayed through the broke years, the exhaustion, the canceled date nights
Emily didn’t just look beautiful; she looked like a reward. Her custom gown – $2,800 of lace, hand-stitched detail, and careful fittings – sat on her like it had been waiting specifically for her body and this day. The venue, the flowers, the photography, the food – all of it totaled about $22,400.
To anyone else, it was “a small, nice wedding.”
To Marcus, it was two years of sacrifice made visible.
And somewhere between the champagne glasses and the string lights, his little sister Bethany walked in and set fire to all of it.
Bethany was twenty-two and looked like she’d walked straight off a social media ad.
Gold backless dress. Perfect tan. Nails done.
Hair styled in loose waves. She arrived late, after the ceremony was over, and didn’t even bother with the “Oh my God, congratulations!” performance people usually fake for weddings.
She walked in, took a champagne from a passing server, glanced around the room with a bored expression, and retreated to the far corner like she was waiting for the show to start.
Marcus noticed; he always noticed with her.
What he didn’t do was panic.
He’d spent three years learning that Bethany’s moods were like storms – dramatic, loud, and usually brief. Most of the time, if he ignored the lightning, it burned itself out.
What he didn’t realize was that this storm had been building for weeks.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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