The dark red liquid splashed across my skirt.
Beverly did not apologize. Instead, she clutched her chest with both hands.
“My heart,” she wheezed. “Brandon, you’re upsetting me. The stress is too much.”
I watched as our guests rushed to her side. Beverly’s sister and nieces escorted her away while whispering their concern.
I went to the bathroom with my maid of honor to try to rescue my dress. We eventually got the worst of it out, but the damage went deeper than a stained dress.
I watched as our guests rushed to her side.
I told myself she was just being dramatic. That it would end after the wedding.
I was wrong. It was only the beginning of a long, cold war.
Two weeks after the honeymoon, our photographer called. Her name was Lila. She was the daughter of one of Beverly’s best friends. She sounded like she was on the verge of a breakdown.
“I don’t know how this happened,” Lila said. “It was fine when I first checked the files, but now the SD card is corrupted. We tried every recovery software in the office, but the files are gone.”
It was only the beginning of a long, cold war.
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