The air shimmered with anticipation, not just from the candles on my cake, but from the quiet hum of our future. It was my 30th birthday, and everything felt… perfect. He was there, my fiancé, standing beside me, his hand warm on my lower back. We were engaged, planning a life, a home, a family. I loved him with a fierceness I hadn’t known I possessed. Our small apartment was filled with laughter, the soft clinking of glasses, and the familiar faces of our closest friends and family. It was exactly what I wanted.
But there was one thing, a silly, extravagant wish, that had been lingering in my mind for months. I’d seen THE DRESS in a boutique window downtown, a few blocks from my office. It wasn’t just a dress; it was a dream woven from midnight blue silk, with intricate beading that sparkled like a galaxy, a daring slit up the thigh, and a neckline that was both elegant and provocative. It was a masterpiece. A showstopper. And at three times my monthly rent, it was utterly, painfully out of my league. A fantasy, I’d told myself, pressing my nose against the glass, a beautiful, impossible fantasy. I’d even mentioned it to him once, wistfully, describing it in hushed tones, how it made me feel like anything was possible. He’d smiled, kissed my forehead, and said, “Maybe one day, love.” I thought he understood how much it meant, even just as a symbol.
The party was in full swing when the doorbell chimed again. His mom. I adored her, mostly. She was formidable, elegant, always perfectly put-together, with an air of refined disapproval that was both intimidating and oddly charming. She swept into the room, a vision of polished grace. My smile was already wide, ready to greet her, to accept her customary air kiss.
An angry man shouting | Source: Pexels
Then I saw it.
My breath hitched. The champagne flute slipped slightly in my hand. No. No, it couldn’t be.
She was wearing THE DRESS.
Not something similar. Not a knock-off. It was the dress. The midnight blue silk. The shimmering beads. The daring slit. Every detail, painstakingly etched into my memory, was there, wrapped around her impossibly slim frame.
A sudden, cold wave washed over me, a sickening lurch in my stomach. The room seemed to tilt. The laughter faded into a distant murmur. IT WAS MY DRESS. My impossible dream. My fantasy, come to life on her.
My fiancé, standing next to me, squeezed my hand. I glanced at him, hoping for a shared look of confusion, a knowing shrug, anything. But his eyes were fixed on his mother, a strange, unreadable expression on his face – a mix of discomfort and something else I couldn’t quite decipher. He didn’t meet my gaze.
I felt a flush creep up my neck. Embarrassment. Confusion. A prickle of outrage. Was this a joke? Was she mocking me? Did he tell her I loved it, and she decided to flaunt it? The thought was so cruel, so utterly unlike the woman I thought I knew, that it almost felt absurd. Yet, there it was, sparkling under the soft lights of our living room.
A sad woman sitting on the floor | Source: Pexels
She made her way through the small crowd, nodding politely, until she reached us. Her smile was warm, perhaps a little too warm. “Happy birthday, darling,” she purred, pulling me into a brief, scented hug. Her perfume, expensive and sophisticated, filled my nostrils.
I pulled back, trying to compose myself, to find my voice. “Thank you,” I managed, my eyes involuntarily darting back to the dress. “That’s… that’s a beautiful dress.” The words felt like sandpaper in my throat.
She chuckled, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “Oh, this old thing?” she said, smoothing a hand over the shimmering fabric. “He actually picked it out for me, you know. A little birthday gift.”
The world dropped out from under me. My fiancé? He bought it for her? FOR HIS MOM? On my birthday? The air left my lungs in a silent gasp. The thought echoed, screaming in my head, a cacophony of betrayal and confusion. He knew I loved it. He knew it was my dream dress. And he bought it for his mother. To wear to my party.
My mind reeled, trying to make sense of the new information. The image of us, a perfect couple, began to fracture. Was he so blind? So thoughtless? Or was it something more sinister? A subtle jab, a passive-aggressive act from her, enabled by him? My fiancé still hadn’t said a word, his hand still on my back, but it felt heavy now, not comforting.
I could feel a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. My smile felt frozen, brittle. “Oh,” I managed, the lamest word I’d ever uttered. “That’s… very thoughtful of him.”
A miserable woman | Source: Pexels
She leaned in then, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes, usually so sharp and direct, now holding a strange, almost pitying glint. Her scent, once sophisticated, now felt cloying, suffocating.
“He thought you might like it, too,” she said, her lips barely moving, her gaze flicking to my fiancé, who was now staring intently at the floor. “He has a type, you see. It was supposed to be for her.”
My blood ran cold. Her? Who was ‘her’? My heart was pounding against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Was she talking about an ex-girlfriend? Someone he’d loved before me? Was I a replacement? A wave of nausea washed over me.
She paused, letting the words hang in the air, thick and heavy, like smoke. Her eyes, unwavering, held mine, boring into my very soul. Then, with a chilling calmness that made every hair on my arms stand on end, she finished her sentence.
“The first one. Before she… disappeared.”
DISAPPEARED.
The word hit me like a physical blow. The champagne flute finally slipped from my numb fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp, sickening crack. The sudden noise cut through the gentle murmur of the party, bringing every conversation to a halt. All eyes were on me. All eyes were on the glass.
A white shirt | Source: Freepik
But I wasn’t looking at the broken shards. I was looking at her, at the dress, at the horrifying, dawning realization blooming in my chest. My fiancé still hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even looked up. His silence was deafening.
NO. NO, THIS IS NOT HAPPENING.
The cold sweat intensified, pouring down my temples. The room spun. The perfect future, the perfect man, the perfect life – it wasn’t just fractured; it was utterly, irrevocably annihilated. My fiancé’s mother, in my dream dress, had just unveiled a nightmare. And in that moment, the only thing I truly knew was that I didn’t know the man I was about to marry at all. I went PALE. The world went silent, except for the frantic drumming of my own heart, hammering out a terrifying, unspoken question: Who was “the first one”? And what exactly did she mean by “disappeared”?
