My Groom Cheated With My Sister At Our Wedding

I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen as it scrolled through an endless stream of wedding photos. Each swipe brought a fresh wave of nausea. There they were—Ethan and Victoria—beaming at the camera, champagne flutes raised in celebration. My sister looked radiant in her designer gown, her smile triumphant as she clutched Ethan's arm. My Ethan. The father of the child kicking inside me.

The Manhattan skyline outside my tiny studio apartment window blurred as tears filled my eyes. Three years. Three years I had given him, believing every whispered promise, every gentle touch, every "I love you" that had apparently meant nothing.

"Congratulations to New York's newest power couple!" read one comment.

"A match made in heaven!" gushed another.

My phone buzzed with a notification. Another wedding photo tagged. This one showed them cutting the cake, Victoria feeding Ethan a bite with delicate fingers. The same fingers that had casually brushed my shoulder at family dinners, silently communicating her superiority while she smiled sweetly at me.

My daughter kicked hard, as if sensing my distress. I placed my hand over the swell of my belly, feeling the movement beneath my palm. "I know, baby," I whispered. "I know."

The Carter-Grant wedding had been the social event of the season. Old money meeting new. The legitimate Carter daughter securing her rightful place in society. Meanwhile, I sat alone in my apartment, nine months pregnant, scrolling through evidence of my own foolishness.

I threw my phone onto the couch and struggled to my feet. My reflection in the window showed a woman I barely recognized—hollow-eyed, pale, with dark circles beneath eyes that had cried too many tears. I had been so blind. So desperate to believe that someone could love me, the shameful secret, the living reminder of my father's infidelity.

My phone buzzed again. And again. Congratulatory messages flooded in, not for me, but for people in my contact list attending the wedding. People who knew about us, who had seen Ethan and me together, who now pretended I didn't exist.

Something snapped inside me. I couldn't sit here anymore, drowning in images of their perfect day while my daughter—his daughter—grew heavy in my womb. I grabbed my coat, shoved my feet into shoes, and headed for the door.

The Financial District bustled with the usual midday energy, men and women in expensive suits rushing between meetings, barely noticing the heavily pregnant woman pushing through their ranks. Grant Investments occupied the thirty-seventh floor of a gleaming skyscraper, its glass facade reflecting the cold winter sun.

I bypassed security with the old badge Ethan had given me—apparently no one had thought to deactivate it—and rode the elevator up, my heart pounding harder with each ascending floor. By the time the doors slid open, I was trembling, but not from fear. From rage.

Ethan's assistant looked up, her perfectly made-up face registering shock. "Lily? You can't—"

"He'll see me," I said, pushing past her toward his office door.