The Moment of Truth
The ceremony—fake as it was—was picture-perfect. The venue looked beautiful, the flowers were arranged exactly as I’d envisioned, and the guests arrived dressed in their finest, excited to celebrate what they believed was a genuine union.
Oliver smiled like a man certain of his prize. His mother kissed my cheek like we’d already merged lives and assets, like the transaction was already complete.
“You look lovely, Sharon,” she said, her perfume curling like fog. “Marriage suits you.”
“Does it?” I replied. “We’ll see.”
The ceremony itself was a performance. I stood beside Oliver and listened to him recite vows he didn’t mean, watched him promise things he’d never intended to keep. When the officiant asked if anyone objected, I almost laughed. Everyone should have objected. Everyone should have heard what he’d said about my children.
The reception proceeded normally. Cocktail hour. Dinner. Toasts from friends who genuinely loved me and believed Oliver was a good man.
Then came the moment.
The planner handed the mic to one of the groomsmen, who grinned and tapped it twice, the sound echoing through the venue.
