The migraine hit me like a freight train halfway through my sister's reception. One moment I was laughing at Uncle Jerry's terrible dance moves, and the next, the ballroom lights felt like ice picks drilling into my skull. The telltale aura started creeping across my vision—jagged lines of light that meant I had maybe twenty minutes before the real pain began. "I have to go," I whispered to David, clutching his arm. "Migraine." His face shifted into that practiced expression of concern I'd seen a hundred times during our three years together. "Oh no, babe. Let me take you home." "No, no." I squeezed his hand, already feeling guilty for ruining his night. "Stay. Enjoy yourself. One of us should celebrate with Emma." "Are you sure?" He was already scanning the room, probably calculating how much longer he'd be stuck at a wedding without me. "Positive. I just need darkness and silence." I kissed his cheek. "I'll text you when I get home." "Feel better, Maya." He hugged me, and I caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with champagne. "I probably won't stay much longer anyway. Maybe another hour." I made my goodbyes to Emma—my baby sister, now a radiant bride—and escaped into the cool October night. By the time my Uber pulled up to our apartment, the pain was already building behind my right eye. I texted David at 11:47 PM: *Home safe. Going straight to bed. Love you.* His response came three minutes later: *Love you too. Heading out soon.* Then I took my medication and surrendered to the darkness. That was three days ago. Now, sitting at my desk during my lunch break, I was mindlessly scrolling through the wedding photographer's online gallery that Emma had sent this morning. She'd been gushing about how amazing the photos turned out, how the photographer had captured "every magical moment." I smiled at the ceremony shots—Emma looked ethereal in her lace gown. There was Mom crying during the vows. Dad's proud smile as he walked Emma down the aisle. David and I at our table during dinner, his arm around my shoulders. I clicked through to the reception photos. Dancing. Toasts. The cake cutting. More dancing. Guests getting progressively more drunk and less photogenic as the night wore on. I was about to close the browser when I saw it. The photo was labeled as a candid shot, probably one of hundreds the photographer took throughout the night. It showed the dance floor from an angle, dimly lit with those romantic purple uplights Emma had insisted on. Two people were slow dancing in the center of the frame. My fiancé David, still in his charcoal gray suit. And my maid of honor, Jessica, in her champagne-colored bridesmaid dress. They weren't just dancing. His forehead was pressed against hers, their eyes closed like they were sharing some intimate secret. His hands rested on the small of her back—low enough to make my stomach clench. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, fingers threading through his hair. They looked like lovers. They looked like I didn't exist. My hands started shaking. I checked the timestamp in the corner of the photo: 2:47 AM. 2:47 in the morning. Five hours after I'd left. Four hours after David said he was "heading out soon." I enlarged the photo, studying every detail with a growing sense of horror. The way they fit together. The soft smile on Jessica's face. The gentle curve of David's hand against her back. This wasn't a friendly dance. This was something else entirely.