Chapter 7
I told groom I needed restroom. He nodded, kept his smile for table. His hand left my back. Air returned.
Hallway outside ballroom smelled like clean linen and old perfume. My bare foot throbbed inside borrowed flat someone had found. My real shoe still sat on patterned rug upstairs. My bouquet sat with concierge. White roses losing water.
Ally waited near restroom arch. One of doorway onlookers from LOCATION_X. Young woman in navy bridesmaid dress. She'd slipped me note during Chapter 6. She didn't smile now.
"Bathroom?" she said.
I nodded. Didn't trust voice.
She followed me in. Checked stalls. Empty. She locked main door. My heart hammered so loud I heard it in ears.
She pulled phone from clutch. Screen already queued.
"I didn't mean to record," she said. "I was taking video of hallway for my mom. Then I heard—"
Her thumb hovered.
"You don't have to watch," she said.
"I do," I said.
She pressed play. Phone angle shaky. Doorway perspective from LOCATION_X. Same floral wallpaper. Same patterned rug. Same warm light.
First three seconds: groom stood over me. My lace sleeves bright against floral bedspread. His right arm raised. My hands covered face. Bouquet and single white high heel sharp in foreground. Exactly as prompt captured.
Next three seconds: close on my face. Tear streak. His hand gripped top of head. My hands trembled near chin. Breath ragged. I looked small. Smaller than I remembered feeling.
Next three seconds: he shoved. I fell forward, prone, face down, hands over head, veil spreading across rug. Soft thud. Gasps from doorway. From her. From where she stood holding this phone.
Last seconds: he stood over prone me, turned toward doorway. Older woman in burgundy lace stepped forward to confront him. My body stayed motionless foreground. Video held without resolution. Fifteen seconds total. Then looped.
I watched twice. My own breathing sounded wrong. Distant. Like someone else's.
"That was me," I said. Stupid sentence. But I needed to say it out loud.
She nodded. Tears in eyes.
"Everyone saw?" I asked.
"We saw," she said. "Mrs. Eleanor told him to stop. That's older woman. His mother."
I hadn't known his mother's name until then. Eleanor.
"Who else has this?" I asked.
"Just me," she said. "I haven't sent it. I didn't know what to do. If you wanted it gone— I can delete. Or I can send to you. Your choice. I won't post. I swear."
She held phone out. Offered delete button with thumb. Then share button.
My hand shook. I thought about upstairs bedroom. Floral wallpaper burned into memory. Thought about reception down hall where groom told story about me tripping in dressing suite. Thought about bouquet wrap hiding my phone.
"Send to me," I said. "Not delete. Send."
She blinked. "Are you sure? Once you have it—"
"Send," I said. Quieter this time. One short plea. "Please."
She asked number. I gave it. She typed. I heard soft whoosh of message sending. My phone vibrated inside bouquet wrap downstairs. But I had second phone now — groom's old spare he'd given me for photos, tucked in my clutch because my own had died.
She AirDropped to that phone. New vibration in my clutch.
I pulled it out. File appeared: IMG_4821.MOV 00:15. Thumbnail showed patterned rug, white shoe.
Leverage shifted. Not loud. Quiet click in chest. For first time that day I owned something he didn't control.
"Thank you," I said.
"What will you do?" she asked.
"Keep it," I said. "Not post. Not yet."
She unlocked door. "I'll say you felt sick. Need air."
May you like
I slipped phone deep into clutch, under lipstick. Evidence warm against palm. Knowledge now power. Decision about use still pending, but choice now mine.
I looked at mirror before leaving. Lace veil still pinned. Face still tear-streaked but steadier. I breathed once, slow. Then pushed door open to return to ballroom.
