Everything looked perfect from where I stood. The golden light from a thousand candles made the room glow, the scent of fresh flowers filled the air, and the happy chatter of our guests promised a beautiful celebration. It was the wedding my fiancée, Wynne, had spent over a year planning down to the smallest detail. It was her dream day, and she deserved it. But as I waited at the altar, my hands clasped and my breathing steady, I knew the dream was already over. I wasn’t anxious. I was resolved. While Wynne had been planning our perfect beginning, I had been planning a very different kind of ceremony for the past three days.
It all started seventy-two hours ago when my sister, Suki, came to see me. The moment she walked in, I knew something was terribly wrong. She told me she had seen Wynne at a café, but she wasn’t alone. She was with a man I vaguely recognized from her circle of friends. Suki described the way they leaned in close, the gentle touch on his face, and finally, the kiss. My world shrank in an instant. My apartment, once filled with wedding gifts and hope, felt like a trap. I demanded proof, and with a heavy heart, Suki showed me a photo she had taken. The image was clear and undeniable. The woman I loved, the woman I was about to marry, had been unfaithful. The initial shock was a physical pain, but it soon hardened into a cold, clear plan. I wasn’t going to call off the wedding. I was going to let it happen, but not in the way Wynne expected.
The first sign that something was wrong was when the bridesmaids began their walk down the aisle. A confused murmur rippled through the crowd. Instead of the soft, pastel blue dresses Wynne had meticulously chosen to match the flowers and invitations, every single one of her closest friends was dressed in solid, solemn black. They walked with blank expressions, their dark gowns a stark, shocking contrast against the white petals lining the aisle. It looked less like a wedding procession and more like a funeral march. I had shown them the proof, and not one of them was willing to stand by a liar. When Wynne finally appeared at the end of the aisle, her face was radiant. She took one step forward before she froze. Her brilliant smile faltered as her eyes scanned the crowd, then her bridesmaids. The color drained from her face. She knew. She finished the walk, but her confidence was gone. Her hands were ice cold when she reached me. “Knox, what is this?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Why are they in black? They’ve ruined everything!” I looked at her, my heart completely still. “This isn’t a wedding, Wynne,” I said, my voice calm and loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s a funeral. We’re here to bury what’s left of our relationship.” The gasps from our guests were deafening. Her panic turned to rage as she whirled on her friends, accusing them of betrayal. But they stood firm, a wall of black, confirming the truth she tried to hide. Humiliated and utterly alone, she finally turned and ran, her white dress trailing behind her like a ghost. I watched her go, feeling the weight of the day lift. The performance was over.
