My Fiancé Flirted with My Best Friend in Italian, But It Was My Native Language

"Isabella, why are you always such a klutz? As my fiancée, the future Mrs. Pierce, you need to be graceful and composed, not stumbling around and making messes like a child."

James complained in English, sounding so disappointed that anyone would have thought I had ruined the entire engagement party instead of dropping a note card.

"Sweetheart, you're being way too hard on her. She's just an uncultured girl raised by an ailing mother. Graceful and composed? Ha! You might as well ask a donkey to fly!"

Rachel mocked me in Italian first, then turned around and sharply scolded James in English, her face full of concern.

"James, how can you talk to Isabella like that? She's your fiancée!"

"Relax, honey, you've been doing great... Are you just nervous? Have a glass of champagne. Trust me, you'll feel so much better."

"I don't want a drink." I refused on the spot.

Their cheap, two-faced act made me sick. My stomach was churning so hard I couldn't have swallowed a thing.

But Rachel ignored my refusal completely and walked straight to the champagne tower.

She gracefully lifted a glass of champagne while her other hand, hidden by the sweep of her skirt, gave the tablecloth a vicious yank.

"Ah!" Rachel let out an absurdly theatrical scream. The entire champagne tower came crashing down, spraying golden wine and shattered glass everywhere.

My mother was seated right beside it. Champagne soaked her from head to toe, and she froze in place, helpless, her face going white in an instant.

Three years earlier, my mother had undergone heart surgery. She had never fully recovered, and she was easily startled.

I scrambled up to go check on her, but James moved faster.

He charged toward Rachel without a second thought, his elbow slamming into my shoulder. I went down hard, and my palm landed on a shard of glass. Blood gushed out instantly.

James didn't even notice. All he could see was Rachel and the cut on her calf.

By the time I struggled to my feet, James was already carrying Rachel toward the door, his face frantic with worry.

"James, our engagement ceremony isn't over."

I said it slowly, warm blood dripping steadily from my fingertips onto the carpet.

"That's right, James. I'm fine, really. Your engagement to Isabella matters more."

Rachel's words were pretty enough, but the malice blazing in her eyes was sharper than the glass glittering on the floor. Her arms wound tightly around James's neck, and she kept deliberately pressing her full chest against him.

"Can't you see Rachel is hurt? I'm taking her to the hospital! This party is just a formality. It doesn't matter at all."

James snapped it out impatiently, then strode off without a backward glance.

Every guest at the party saw it. My fiancé walked out carrying my best friend before we had even finished our speeches.

The looks they gave me held sympathy, pity, and plenty of mockery and scorn.

I took a deep breath, forced my tangled emotions back under control, and hurried over to check on my mother.

She really wasn't doing well. Her face was gray and her breathing was fast. She was badly shaken.

I drove her to the hospital right away.

"Isabella, my poor girl. Whatever you decide, even if you break up with James, Mom will stand behind you."

On the drive over, she kept watching me with worried eyes. During the intake exam, she finally said what she'd been holding back.

I took her hand gently and told her not to worry. "I'll handle everything."

Break up? Of course I would break up with James. Just not yet. That would be letting him and Rachel off far too easy.

My father had taught me from the time I was small never to go soft on a traitor. I would make them pay the full price for betraying me!