The Door Was Unlocked

After spending the entire day making sure my wedding did not turn into a disaster with expensive flowers, I finally collapsed onto the bed in my suite, one foot still in a heel and the other already surrendered to humanity.

Tomorrow, I’m going to become Mrs. Bernadi.

That should have made me blush, maybe cry a little, maybe stare at the ring on my finger with a smile. Instead, all I did was stare at the ceiling of my suite, feel the ache in my back, and think that marriage was a horrifying idea invented by people who had never had to check the napkin color three times in one afternoon.

Mama had been scolding me since four p.m.

Correct. I’m a bride too beautiful to carry a clipboard, and yet I still carried one, because if anything went wrong tomorrow, I was not going to let some distant cousin of Ricky’s from Milan call it “charmingly imperfect” in their expensive accent.

I had checked the flowers. The seating chart. The musicians. The menu. The champagne. The lighting. Even the candles at the altar, because one of the decorators had used a shade of white that was too cold, and I refused to get married under lighting that belonged in a dental clinic.

Now my body was tired.

But the itch in my chest was not exhaustion. It was Ricky.

That man and his brand-new ability to ignore my texts for five hours right before our wedding day.

I opened our chat again.

Me: Where are you?

Me: Rehearsal is tomorrow morning at 9. Don’t be late.

Me: Ricky.

Me: If you’re dead, send a sign. If you’re alive, answer.

Five hours later, he finally replied.

Ricky: Sorry, love. Meeting with Papa and Rhys. Long day. I’ll come by your place tonight.

I stared at the screen, then called him.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

No answer.

I sat up slowly, took off the remaining heel, then looked at my reflection in the glass. My hair was not as neat as it had been that afternoon, a few strands falling around my face. My makeup still looked good, of course, because God had given me many trials but had never revoked my cheekbone privileges.

I should have gone to sleep.

I should have trusted my fiancé.

I should not have become the kind of woman who drove herself to a man’s villa the night before her wedding just because he would not pick up the phone.

But yeah... I had been born with good intuition and terrible patience.

I grabbed a thin cardigan, my phone, and the car keys, then left before my brain could turn into a morality committee.

The Bernadi family occupied a part of the resort set a little farther away from the de Cruzes. More private, more silent, more suitable for people who considered loud laughter a symptom of middle-class illness. The road to their villas curved through palm trees and low garden lights.

Ricky’s villa sat at the end of a narrow road, facing a low cliff and a private beach. The front lights were on, but the living room was dark behind the huge glass windows. His car was out front.

I parked, got out, and the night air touched my skin immediately.

“Ricky?” I called after opening the front door.

Unlocked.

I paused for a second.

Then I scoffed and stepped inside. The living room was dark. Big white sofa. Low wooden table. An open bottle of wine near the window, two glasses beside it.

Two.

I stared at the glasses for a few seconds.

Maybe his father had been here earlier.

Maybe his brother.

I walked farther in.

“You’re out of you mind, Rick.”

I stopped.

Then Ricky laughed.

My stomach dropped so fast I felt like my body had been left behind.

I kept walking. The hallway to Ricky’s bedroom was lit by a single wall lamp. The door was not fully closed. Through the crack came warm yellow light and the sound of sheets moving.

There are many things a woman can think in the three seconds before her life changes.

I thought about my dress tomorrow.

I thought about Mama crying.

I thought about the note under my dorm room door.

I thought about Ricky, back then, saying, “He’s not going to touch you.”

Then I pushed the door open.

And found Ricky in bed with…

Oh Dios Mio.

Camille.

Camille, the blonde from the party yesterday. Camille in the silver slip dress. Camille who had said Rhysand’s view was nice sometimes.

Now the view was her naked beneath the sheets, her blonde hair tangled against the pillow, while Ricky, my fiancé, my future husband, the safe person I had chosen, sat half-upright with his bare chest exposed and the face of an idiot who had just realized doors did, in fact, serve a purpose.

I stared at them.

They stared at me.

I even noticed the most useless details. White linen sheets. A champagne glass on the nightstand. Pink lipstick on Ricky’s neck.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” I screamed.

Ricky jumped out of bed, dragging the sheet to his waist. “Maya.”

Camille let out a scream and grabbed the blanket.

I pointed at her. “You.. shut the fuck up.”

Ricky raised his hands. “Maya, listen to me.”

“Listen to you?” I snapped. “I’m supposed to marry you tomorrow, Riccardo, and you’re naked with a model in your bedroom. What exactly am I supposed to listen to? A SKINCARE TUTORIAL?”

“Maya, this isn’t what you think.”

I looked at the bed. Looked at Camille. Looked at her neck.

“Right. Maybe you were discussing geopolitics while mutually losing your clothes.”

Camille moved to get off the bed, still wrapping the blanket around herself. “I should go.”

I moved forward immediately.

She tried to slip past me.

I caught her by the hair.

Camille shrieked.

Ricky shouted my name.

“Shut the fuck up,” I told Camille, then pulled her close enough to make her stop moving, hard enough for her to understand that the de Cruz family did not raise room decor.

“Maya, let her go!” Ricky panicked.

I looked at him. “You’re worried about her hair? Touching. I’ll write that into my vows tomorrow.”

Camille clutched the blanket to her chest. “I didn’t know you two were still serious.”

I looked her up and down. “Oh, honey. You were at our dinner party yesterday.” I smiled sweetly. “And the diamond ring on my finger isn’t a mood ring.”

Her face flushed.

I let go of her hair.

She backed away quickly, almost tripping, then picked her dress up from the floor. I saw the silver fabric lying near Ricky’s shoes.

Ricky rubbed a hand over his face. “Maya, please.”

“Don’t ‘please’ me.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain.” I opened my bag and took out my phone. My hand was shaking. “I would love to hear this seminar.”

Ricky stared at my phone. “What are you doing?”

“Documenting a family moment.”

“Maya.”

I pressed record.

The camera pointed at his face. At his still half-naked body. At the ruined sheets. At Camille standing in the corner with her dress not fully pulled over her shoulders.

“Smile,” I said. “Tomorrow we’re supposed to have a professional photographer, but we can start tonight.”

“Maya, turn that off.”

“No.”

He looked at me, and something in his face changed. His panic cracked. Apparently, his guilt was very thin, like expensive veneer. I could see him holding back anger. Why did he get to be angry, huh?

“You want to turn this into drama?” he said.

I went still.

He had actually chosen that word.

“Drama?” I repeated.

“You’re always like this. Cold. Rigid. Everything has to be perfect. Everything has to be your way.”

I kept recording.

“I tried, Maya. I was patient. I was patient for a year. You always pulled away every time I touched you. There was always a reason. Trauma, fear, not being ready.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I’m a man. I have needs.”

Inside my head, something fell with a very soft sound.

Not love.

I think it was the last of my respect.

I lowered the phone slightly, just enough to look at him without the screen between us.

“So you slept with another woman because I wasn’t easy enough to touch?”

Ricky did not answer. That was the answer.

I nodded slowly. “Wow.”

“Maya…”

“No. Keep going.” I lifted the phone again. “Say it again. For the archive. Say that tomorrow you were supposed to marry me, but tonight you fucked Camille because I was too cold, too rigid, too unwilling to be opened like a bottle of champagne.”

Ricky went pale.

“Oh my God,” Camille whispered.

I looked at her. “Don’t bring God into this. He’s already busy being disappointed of you fucking face.”

Ricky took one step forward. “Maya, enough.”

I took one step back. Because if he touched me, I might do something that would make Papa call a lawyer instead of the wedding planner.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “my family is going to sit in the front row. And you…” I looked at him, from his messy hair to his waist still covered by the sheet. “You weren’t even smart enough to lock the door.”

Ricky opened his mouth.

“Don’t. I’ve heard enough sounds from this bed tonight.”

I stopped recording.

The room went suddenly quiet, except for Camille’s quick breathing and the distant waves outside, hitting the shore like slow applause from a very nosy universe.

I walked out of the bedroom.

Ricky called my name once.

Twice.

I did not turn around.

My fingers moved on their own. I opened the family group chat made for wedding coordination. The group name was still Bernadi x de Cruz Wedding Weekend, complete with the ring emoji Saba had added, which now felt like a digital insult.

I sent the video without caption.

My phone started exploding.

Mama.

Xavier.

Papa.

Ricky’s father.

An Italian number I had not saved.

Saba sent twenty-seven messages in all caps.

Someone wrote, “Maya, don’t do anything yet. We can handle this elegantly.”

I stared at that until my eyes felt dry.

Elegantly.

How funny.