Maya, usually avoided. I was a struggling artist, specializing in abstract oil paintings that critics called “promising” but buyers called “confusing.” I stood in the corner, nursing a glass of cheap white wine, watching people ignore my work.
Then, David walked in.
It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though he possessed the kind of symmetrical, chiseled features usually reserved for magazine covers. It was the way he moved—with an effortless, commanding grace that parted the crowd. He walked straight to my most obscure painting, The Blue Void, a piece I had priced exorbitantly high just to keep it.
“It’s magnificent,” he said, turning to me. His eyes were a startling, icy blue. “It captures the feeling of drowning in open air. I must have it.”
“It’s not really for sale,” I stammered.
“Double the price,” he countered, smiling. “Consider it a down payment on getting to know the artist with the saddest eyes in the room.”
That was the beginning. The next six months were a blur of what I now know as “love bombing,” but back then, it felt like destiny. David was perfect. He was a venture capitalist with endless resources and even more endless charm. He filled my studio with imported peonies. He flew us to Paris for dinner because I mentioned craving a specific croissant. He listened to my dreams and validated my insecurities. He made me feel like the center of the universe.
My friends were envious. My parents were relieved I had found stability.
Only Sarah, my older sister, remained unimpressed.
Sarah was a pragmatic, sharp-tongued lawyer who saw the world in shades of liability and risk. While everyone else cooed over David’s gestures, Sarah watched him with hawk-like intensity.
“He’s too perfect, Maya,” she warned me one night, over coffee in my kitchen. “Nobody is that polished. It feels… calculated. Like he’s following a script.”
“You’re just being cynical,” I dismissed her, hurt. “Why can’t you be happy for me? Are you jealous?”
That accusation silenced her, but it didn’t change the look of deep, gnawing worry in her eyes.
The Wedding Day arrived like a crescendo. The venue was the Grand Conservatory, a glass palace filled with thousands of white orchids. I stood on the dais, encased in a custom silk gown, hand-in-hand with David. We were the golden couple. The ceremony was flawless. The reception was a dream.
It was time to cut the cake. A towering, seven-tier architectural marvel of fondant and sugar, crowned with gold leaf.
David smiled at me. “Ready, my love?”
He placed his hand over mine on the silver knife handle. I looked up at him with adoration, believing my life had finally docked in the harbor of happiness.
Suddenly, Sarah stepped onto the stage.
