I smiled at Bethany.

So hard, in fact, that my cheeks began to ache.

That perfect, porcelain bride smile glued to my face like fresh paint.

She grabbed my arm, nails too sharp against my skin, and yanked me toward the corner of the ballroom, away from the music, away from Dominic's steady gaze.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed.

“Are you crazy? Flirting and giggling with your husband’s best friend at your reception?”

Her voice was sharp, breathless—like she couldn’t make sense of the shift.

I tilted my head innocently, eyes wide.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Bethany,” I said sweetly.

“I was just being polite to Dominic. He’s our guest, after all. Isn’t it proper etiquette to be polite to your guests?”

Bethany stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

“But you were practically wrapped around him, Mary,” she snapped. “And what about earlier? You poured wine all over Christian. I thought it was an accident, but now... I don’t know anymore. You’re acting strange. Not like yourself.”

I shrugged, letting out a soft laugh. “Oh, Bethany. I think you’re overthinking it. I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.”

“Nervous?” she echoed, squinting at me.

“Yes,” I said, nodding, my voice light. “This is my first marriage, after all. I don’t know what I’m doing. Everything’s just… overwhelming. I guess I’m scared. Isn’t that normal?”

Bethany softened—too fast. Like she'd wanted to believe it.

Like she was dying to believe I was still her fool.

And then she did what I least expected.

She hugged me.

The audacity.

I stood stiff in her arms, blinking over her shoulder.

She smelled like my perfume. The one I gave her last year.

“I’m here for you, okay?” she whispered. “We’ll get through this. Together. I’m your best friend.”

I almost choked on my laugh. But I didn’t. I just hugged her back, pressing my hands against the silk of her dress.

“You’re right,” I whispered sweetly.

“You’ve always been here for me.”

---

As my husband and I stepped into the car for the ride home, I should’ve felt some kind of newlywed glow. Instead, I was numb.

And to make it worse?

Bethany had the audacity to climb in right behind us—as if she belonged there.

She locked eyes with me, flashing that fake little smile.

"Hey babe," she said lightly. "I hope you don't mind me tagging along. I mean, you know my place is downtown. It’ll save me the fare if I crash at your place tonight."

Crash. At. My place.

With my husband.

The sheer shamelessness of her nearly made me choke.

I returned her smile with a tight-lipped nod.

"Of course."

The words tasted like poison on my tongue.

In that moment, I felt it—like every single year of friendship with this woman had been nothing but an elaborate scam. A con I never saw coming.

She was an aspiring actress in a small-time agency, barely crawling toward recognition. If anyone found out what she was doing—who she was doing—it would be a career-destroying scandal.

One that could burn me too.

But maybe that’s what made it so delicious to her.

She sat beside Christian, her thigh pressed against his, their eyes locked in a gaze far too intense for “friends.”

Like they were daring me to scream.

Daring me to fight.

Instead, I leaned back and whispered, “I think I’ll take a nap.”

Because sleeping through this nightmare seemed better than staying awake.

I shut my eyes.

I don’t know what stirred me. Maybe it was instinct.

Or maybe it was the muffled, breathy moans that scraped their way into my sleep.

I cracked my eyes open—just a sliver.

Just enough to see.

His hand.

Christian’s hand.

Buried between Bethany’s thighs, hidden beneath the folds of her dress.

Her hand was pressed over her mouth, trying to contain the sound.

They were both looking at me.

Looking to see if I’d noticed.

If I was awake.

If I’d scream.

“Be quiet,” my husband whispered to her, his voice low and hushed. “You’ll wake her up.”

Too late.

Tears leaked down my cheeks, warm and bitter as I turned my face toward the window.

And I cried—quietly, bitterly—mourning not just the man I thought I loved, but the girl I used to be.

The one who did nothing to deserve this punishment.

But as I quietly sobbed, while she moaned—right beside my husband—

a thought crept into my mind.

Dark. Cold. Beautifully cruel.

An idea.

I slid my hand slowly into my purse, fingers wrapping around the cool metal of my phone.

No sudden moves. No sharp breaths.

Just quiet rage.

With practiced ease, I opened my camera and hit record.

I didn’t even need to look directly.

My lashes remained low, eyes barely open, watching through the screen as his fingers slid beneath her panties… as she bit down on her lip, her moans muffled by trembling hands.

Disgusting.

But I kept recording.

Every sick movement.

Every whisper.

Every twitch of pleasure from two monsters who thought they could humiliate me in silence.

Let them enjoy their secret.

Because now?

I had evidence.

And I was going to play the long game.

I wasn’t going to scream.

Or cry.

Or throw a tantrum.

No.

I was going to ruin them.

One silent step at a time.

Until they were broken, twitching in corners, choking on their own guilt—or better yet, their own fear.

I was going to mess with both of them so thoroughly, so deeply, that they’d lose their minds.

That they’d beg for peace.

And I wouldn’t stop.

Not until one of them ended up in an asylum.

And I wasn’t even joking.