At our wedding, my husband raised his glass and declared, “This dance is for the woman I’ve secretly loved for ten years.”
Then, he walked past me—and stopped in front of my sister.
The guests applauded, thinking it was a playful gesture, until I asked my father a single question.
That was when my husband froze…and my sister collapsed.
The ballroom of the Montclair Hotel shimmered under hundreds of golden lights.
Glasses clinked, the string quartet played softly, and I—Elena Moreau, now Mrs. Daniel Hayes—couldn’t stop smiling.
We had planned this day for two years. Every flower, every vow, every melody had been chosen with care.
Everything was perfect—until Daniel stood to make his toast.
“This dance,” he said, raising his glass, “is for the woman I’ve secretly loved for the past decade.”
Laughter followed, brief and uncertain. I smiled, assuming he meant me.
But then Daniel walked past my table… and stopped before Clara, my younger sister.
She blinked at him, startled, then looked down, blushing. When he offered his hand, a nervous murmur spread through the crowd—but thinking it part of a performance, everyone applauded.
The orchestra began playing The Way You Look Tonight.
The song I had chosen for our first dance.
And yet, Daniel was dancing it with Clara.
They moved slowly, intimately.
My father’s knuckles whitened around his glass; my mother forced a smile. When the music stopped, silence fell like glass breaking. Daniel turned to me—guilt and defiance written across his face.
I whispered, “Dad… how long have you known?”
My father said nothing.
His eyes were answer enough. Daniel stiffened; Clara swayed, then collapsed.
The thud of her fall shattered the room. Screams replaced applause.
The wedding ended there—though the disaster had only begun.
Within two days, the scandal hit every local headline: “Bride betrayed during wedding toast.”
But no one knew the whole truth. I barely did.
Clara was hospitalized with a nervous breakdown. Daniel vanished that night and never returned.
My father refused to speak to me. Only my mother, weeping, confessed: Daniel and Clara had met long before I introduced them.
“She was nineteen,” my mother sobbed. “He was twenty-five.
We thought it had ended.”
But when I fell in love with Daniel, no one dared to tell me.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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