When White Turns Away
The night before our wedding, my fiancée let her so-called "best friend" butcher the gown my late mother had sewn, chopping it into a revealing mini dress.
I rushed over with the ruined dress in my arms, ready to demand answers: only to catch their voices through the door:
"Imagine him expecting me to wear something a dead woman stitched. What a curse!"
Through the narrow gap, I saw my distant, frigid fiancée flushed with color, straddling his lap.
"What we did at the bridal shop wasn't enough," she murmured. "Tomorrow, walking down the aisle in this tiny dress you made me, it'll be even more exhilarating."
Their lips met.
My hand froze against the door, and inside, something broke with a soundless crack.
If she longed for thrills, I would grant her some.