My friends were envious. My parents were relieved I had found stability.
Only Sarah, my older sister, remained unimpressed.
Sarah was a pragmatic, sharp-tongued lawyer who saw the world in shades of liability and risk. While everyone else cooed over David’s gestures, Sarah watched him with hawk-like intensity.
“He’s too perfect, Maya,” she warned me one night, over coffee in my kitchen. “Nobody is that polished. It feels… calculated. Like he’s following a script.”
“You’re just being cynical,” I dismissed her, hurt. “Why can’t you be happy for me? Are you jealous?”
That accusation silenced her, but it didn’t change the look of deep, gnawing worry in her eyes.
The Wedding Day arrived like a crescendo. The venue was the Grand Conservatory, a glass palace filled with thousands of white orchids. I stood on the dais, encased in a custom silk gown, hand-in-hand with David. We were the golden couple. The ceremony was flawless. The reception was a dream.
It was time to cut the cake. A towering, seven-tier architectural marvel of fondant and sugar, crowned with gold leaf.
David smiled at me. “Ready, my love?”
He placed his hand over mine on the silver knife handle. I looked up at him with adoration, believing my life had finally docked in the harbor of happiness.
Suddenly, Sarah stepped onto the stage.
It looked like a sisterly gesture of congratulations. The guests smiled. Sarah embraced me tightly. But the moment her arms went around me, I felt her trembling. She was vibrating with a terror so profound it was contagious.
“Sarah?” I whispered.
