“The car.”
His mother interrupted.
“No.
Don’t separate anything yet.
Make sure she isn’t coming back first.”
My husband walked toward the suite door.
The moment it clicked shut behind him, the maid of honor remained near the chair, phone still on speaker.
His mother’s voice became quieter.
“You need to calm him down.”
“I’m trying.”
“He gets careless when he’s scared.”
“You didn’t tell me there would be a certified copy.”
“I didn’t know.”
“And you didn’t tell me about the pills until tonight.”
A long pause followed.
“You knew what this was,” his mother said.
My maid of honor didn’t answer.
That mattered.
Not because it made her innocent.
It didn’t.
But it told me the alliance above me wasn’t as solid as I had imagined.
They were scared of one another too.
I opened the emergency-call screen on my phone, hesitated, then decided against making a voice call from beneath the bed.
Instead, I sent a silent message to hotel security through the hotel’s guest messaging service I had used earlier that day to request extra towels.
I typed only what was necessary: I was inside the bridal suite, hiding because I believed someone had put medication into my drink and was attempting to take important documents.
I asked them to send security and contact police.
Then I added: Do not call the room.
My thumb hovered before I sent it.
The message disappeared.
Above me, my maid of honor walked into the bathroom.
I could hear drawers opening.
The phone remained on speaker near the bed.
His mother muttered, “This should have been simple.”
I almost laughed at the obscenity of that sentence.
My wedding day.
My home.
My signature.
My drugged champagne.
To them, it was supposed to be simple.
The suite door opened again.
My husband returned.
“She’s not in the hall.”
“Then she must still be downstairs,” my maid of honor said.
“She should have been back already.”
His shoes stopped.
A cold realization moved through me.
He was beginning to notice the timing.
“Did either of you actually see her drink the champagne?” his mother asked.
No one answered.
My pulse jumped.
My husband walked toward the minibar.
Glass touched glass.
“Her glass is still here.”
The room became silent.
I saw his feet turn slowly toward the bed.
“What?” my maid of honor whispered.
