The man I married—Ryan Bennett, 33—was everything I once believed I wanted: handsome, successful in corporate law, calm, thoughtful. We dated for three years before getting married. I used to think becoming his wife was the luckiest thing that had ever happened to me.
Our wedding was held at an elegant hotel downtown. Soft golden lights bathed the ballroom. White lilies covered every table. A pianist played gentle melodies that seemed to float in the air. Guests kept saying we looked “like something out of a movie.”
I didn’t know that just hours later, that movie would end.
When the reception finally wound down, Ryan turned to me, his voice strangely steady.
“I need to step out for a bit. You should get some rest.”
I frowned. “Tonight? What could you possibly need to do tonight?”
He gave me a faint smile. “It won’t take long. I’ll be back.”
Then he put on his coat and left, closing the bridal suite door behind him. The room was full of flowers and candles—and suddenly hollow.
I sat by the half-open window, listening to the distant traffic of Chicago, the city that never really sleeps. My chest felt cold.
Three hours passed.
No messages. No calls.