The sun beat down with a vengeance, mercilessly baking the “neutral elegance” of Chloe’s outdoor wedding. 102°F. Not a single cloud, not a whisper of a breeze. Just an endless expanse of beige chiffon and blush roses wilting faster than our hopes for survival. I’d known Chloe was particular, but this was a whole new level of sadistic artistry. “No plastic! No Hydro Flasks!” she’d shrieked during the rehearsal, her voice cutting through the stifling air like a razor. “This isn’t a campsite! Beige shows stains, people!” And now, here we were, guests melting into puddles of sweat and misery. Our only salvation was supposed to be tiny cucumber spritzers, three sips max, doled out by visibly suffering servers. The air shimmered above the baked earth, and I swore I could see mirages of actual water bottles dancing on the horizon. Chloe, magnificent and terrifying in her form-fitting ivory gown, looked utterly untouched by the heat. Her perfect blonde hair stayed perfect, her smile – a thin, satisfied line – never faltered. She watched us, a slight smirk playing on her lips, as if our collective discomfort was part of the aesthetic. I saw one older woman fan herself with a program, her face crimson. Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “Posture strong! I paid for a photographer!” she clapped, her voice shrill. She truly was an angel of beige, descended from hell.
I glanced at the groom, my oldest friend, standing at the altar. His face was a mask of strained happiness, sweat beading on his forehead despite the hidden ice packs his mom, Linda, had tried to discreetly tape to his back. Poor guy, he was so smitten, so completely blind.
Linda, bless her heart, was trying to open a small, nondescript bottle of water she’d smuggled in. Chloe, with an uncanny ability to spot defiance, hissed, “Do you want to spoil my vows?!” Linda’s hand froze. The water remained sealed. A palpable wave of despair washed over the guests. This wasn’t a wedding; it was an endurance test.
The ceremony dragged on. Chloe’s vows were a monologue of her own perfections, interrupted only by the occasional, forced “darling” directed at the groom. We clapped on cue, our hands stinging from the heat, our throats parched. When it was finally over, a collective, silent sigh of relief swept through the crowd. But the ordeal wasn’t over. Photos. Hours of them.
We lined up, trying to arrange our damp hair and sticky clothes into something resembling joy. Chloe was everywhere, directing, perfecting, correcting. “Don’t scrunch your nose! Angle your chin! My vision, people!” My head throbbed. I felt lightheaded. Any minute now, someone was going to pass out.
Then I saw Linda. She’d slipped away from the main group, subtly shielding her phone with her hand. Her face, usually so warm and open, was set with a grim determination I’d never seen before. She typed furiously, then held the phone to her ear. “Hi José?” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the buzzing drone of my heat-addled brain. “We’re ready.”
My stomach lurched. José? Who was José? A caterer finally bringing actual drinks? A bus to take us away from this inferno? But the look on Linda’s face wasn’t about relief. It was cold, resolute.
In five minutes, it all clicked. Not a single wedding guest was fainting anymore. Every eye, every desperate, sun-bleached gaze, was fixed on the driveway. A beat-up, dark sedan pulled up, completely out of place amidst the manicured lawns and pastel décor. And out stepped a man. He wasn’t in a suit. He wasn’t carrying refreshments. He was just a man in plain clothes, carrying a thick Manila envelope.
He looked at Linda. She gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. He began walking towards the assembled guests, towards the gleaming, oblivious wedding party.
Chloe, mid-pose, turned. Her eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, went wide with something I could only describe as pure, unadulterated terror. Her perfect, thin smile vanished. Her jaw dropped. Her face went from angelic ivory to a furious, blotchy scarlet in seconds. She dropped her bouquet. The delicate beige roses scattered on the dusty ground.
“WHAT IS HAPPENING?!” she shrieked, her voice shattering the oppressive silence. She started to run, her pristine white gown billowing behind her, arms flailing, directly towards Linda. “YOU! WHAT DID YOU DO?!”
The manila envelope was handed to the groom, whose own eyes widened as he saw the legal seal. He looked up, bewildered, at the stranger. The stranger, José, spoke in a quiet, firm voice that somehow carried to us all.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, looking directly at the groom. “But your bride can’t legally marry you today. She’s already my wife. We’ve been separated for three years, but the divorce was never finalized. My lawyer assured me this annulment request would stop proceedings before they went any further.”
A collective gasp swept through the crowd, a tidal wave of shock and disbelief. The groom’s face crumpled, pure, agonizing heartbreak etched into every feature. Chloe, caught in her wild dash, froze, her body shaking. Linda stood still, her gaze fixed on Chloe, a quiet, devastating victory in her eyes. The truth hung heavy in the stifling air, hotter and more suffocating than the sun itself. This was worse than any suffering Chloe had inflicted. This was a lie that had stolen everything.
