Jasmine lay on her chaise like a delicate queen, smiling sweetly at the guests who flocked to see the miracle — the perfect woman, alive after three years in a coma. Scott hovered by her side, his every gesture dripping devotion like poison I once used to drink willingly.
I moved through the ballroom with a tray in my hands, nodding, bowing, smiling as if none of it tore me apart inside.
When I brought Jasmine her wine, she clasped my wrist with her too-soft fingers. “Nadine, this is lovely. Truly, thank you for all this.” She tilted her head, her syrupy tone slipping like a knife under my ribs. “You know, your husband really loves me. Don’t you think?”
I said nothing.
She laughed lightly, as if it were the funniest thing in the world. “He did this for me — all of this. He’d do anything for me, you know. So, tell me… what are your plans for your wedding anniversary?” Her smile widened, crocodile-like. “I mean, is it really your anniversary?"
Of course, she knew. They had been fooling me since.
I stared right through her. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving so you can have fun with him during our anniversary,” I whispered.
She blinked, caught off guard for a second. But then her grin returned, wider than ever. “Good,” she said, her eyes cold. “Run away, then.”
I turned away before she could see the tremble in my hands. I stood behind the crowd for hours, watching them bask in the glow of my work.
Guests laughed, music flowed, Jasmine twirled around Scott like a silk ribbon and I wondered when I’d ever felt that wanted. Maybe never.
Then it happened.
