I worked until dawn. Every seating chart. Every floral arrangement. Every email and phone call. I barely ate. Barely slept. But I endured. Because I had a plan.
Just a few more days.
During a break, I wandered into the hall and caught Denver and Patricia whispering near the piano. His fingers brushed her cheek. She giggled. They leaned in too close.
When I passed, he pulled away and gave me that same old line.
“She’s just my friend. You know that, right? So don’t look at us like you’re jealous. We’ve always been close. Even before you came into the picture—it was supposed to be us.”
He said it like I was the mistake. The intruder.
I didn’t reply.
That night, as I finally lay down in the guest room—barely able to keep my eyes open—I heard it.
Soft moans. Muffled gasps. Patricia’s room was down the hall, but the sounds carried. The headboard creaked. A sharp intake of breath. Then Denver’s voice—low, familiar.
I walked out into the hallway and stood frozen outside the cracked door.
There, through the sliver, I saw them. Tangled. Sweaty. Sheets wrapped around their bodies like silk secrets. Her laugh. His groan.
I just turned around and walked back to my room.