The dust under the bed was starting to tickle my nose, and I had to press my hand firmly over my mouth to keep from sneezing. I was lying flat on my stomach, my expensive white wedding dress crushed against the hardwood floor of a luxury hotel suite in downtown Atlanta. The delicate lace was catching on the rough fibers of the rug.
It was ridiculous, I knew that.
A thirty‑year‑old woman hiding under a bed on her wedding night like a kid playing hide‑and‑seek. But I wanted to see the look on Preston’s face.
In my head, I’d already played out the whole scene. He would walk into our bridal suite on the thirty‑second floor, loosen his tie, maybe call out my name in that soft, confused voice I loved so much.
“Valerie?
Val?”
And then—surprise. I’d roll out from under the bed, probably looking like a mess of tulle and silk, and we’d collapse onto the mattress, laughing. It was supposed to be the silly, romantic start of our happily‑ever‑after.
We had just spent six hours downstairs in a ballroom overlooking Peachtree Street—dancing, cutting cake, taking photos with relatives who’d flown in from all over the U.S., shaking hands with people I barely knew.
Outside, American flags fluttered on the streetlamps, traffic hummed, and the glow of the Atlanta skyline framed the night like a movie. Now, finally, it was supposed to be just us.
Or so I thought. The heavy mahogany door creaked open.
I bit my lip, suppressing a giggle.
My muscles tensed to spring up. But the footsteps were wrong. They weren’t Preston’s confident, slightly heavy strides.
These were sharp, staccato clicks.
Clack. Clack.
Clack. High heels.
Expensive ones.
I froze. Through the small gap between the duvet and the floor, I saw a pair of silver designer stilettos stop right in the middle of the room. I recognized those shoes immediately.
They belonged to Brenda—my brand‑new mother‑in‑law.
“Yes, Chenise. I’m in the suite now,” Brenda’s voice rang out, sharp and imperious.
She wasn’t whispering. She sounded like she owned the place.
She put her phone on speaker and tossed it onto the bed—the very bed I was hiding under.
The mattress springs groaned above my head, pressing down slightly. “Did they leave yet?” a small female voice asked from the phone. “Preston is downstairs handling the final bill with the caterers,” Brenda said.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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