The Grand Plaza was the kind of hotel that hosted royalty and scandals in equal measure. I’d been married there four hours ago — to Richard, a man I liked but didn’t love, in a ceremony that was beautiful and completely hollow. The reception had been lovely. The cake had been cut. And at 11 PM, while Richard danced with his college friends, I’d slipped upstairs to the honeymoon suite to “freshen up.”
Sloane had followed me.
She was Richard’s sister. Twenty-six. The maid of honor who’d looked at me across the altar with an expression that had made me forget my vows. She’d been avoiding me since the engagement party — since the moment she’d kissed me in the coat check and then pretended it was the champagne. But tonight, in the black satin bridesmaid dress that clung to her body like a confession, she was unavoidable.
The suite was everything the wedding magazines had promised — white roses, champagne on ice, a king-sized bed with rose petals scattered across the sheets. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in my wedding gown, my veil tangled in my updo, when Sloane walked in and locked the door.
“Your brother is downstairs dancing with his groomsmen,” I whispered, looking up at her. My heart was hammering against the corset of my dress, making it hard to breathe. “I’m still in my wedding dress. And you’re supposed to be fixing my veil. You said it was crooked during the reception. You followed me upstairs to help me. That’s what you told the bridal party.”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just walked over, stood in front of me, her hand on the bedpost, her eyes dark in the warm suite lights. She leaned down, her cheek brushing my jaw, her hand sliding from the bedpost to my shoulder, then to the neckline of my gown.
“If he comes up to carry me over the threshold,” I breathed, my voice trembling as her fingers found the buttons at the back of my dress, “he’ll see his sister’s hands inside his bride’s dress. He’ll see your mouth on my neck and your black bridesmaid dress pushed up and your fingers inside the woman he just promised to love forever. He’ll know that the woman he married spent her wedding night with his sister. He’ll know that I said ‘I do’ while thinking about your mouth—”
She turned my face toward her with a hand under my chin. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like champagne and ruin and the exact moment when a wedding vow becomes something that can’t be spoken in any church. It was slow, bridal, completely devastating — her tongue sliding against mine, her hand undoing the buttons at the back of my dress with a precision that made my vision blur.
The elevator dinged outside.
Richard’s voice. Muffled by the hallway. Drunk. Happy. Completely unaware. “Elena? Baby? I’m coming to carry you over the threshold!”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just pressed her other hand over my mouth, her fingers still working the buttons of my gown, her eyes locked on mine.
“Let him knock,” she whispered against my ear, her hand sliding inside my dress, finding my breast, my nipple, pinching with a pressure that made my back arch off the bed. “Let him wait. You’re not his tonight. You were never his. You were always mine. From the moment he introduced us. From the moment you looked at me instead of him. From the moment you said ‘yes’ to him while your eyes said ‘please’ to me.”
She made me come in my wedding dress. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my breast, the veil tangled in my hair, the rose petals crushed beneath us. I came with Richard knocking on the door — “Elena? The door’s locked? Baby?” — with Sloane’s hand over my mouth, with the wedding ring still on my finger and Sloane’s other hand inside my gown.
After, she fixed my veil. Smoothed my dress. Buttoned me back up and kissed my forehead.
“Open the door,” she whispered. “Let him carry you over the threshold. Let him think you’re his. And tomorrow, when he’s on the plane to Bali, meet me at my apartment. Bring the dress. I’ll show you exactly what a wedding night should be.”
I opened the door. Richard carried me over the threshold, drunk and happy and completely unaware that his sister’s scent was on my skin. The honeymoon was torture — seven days of pretending, of smiling, of letting Richard touch me while I thought about Sloane.
I left him on day three. Came back early. Went to Sloane’s apartment in my wedding dress and let her spend three days showing me exactly what I’d been missing.
We’re together now. Richard knows. He doesn’t speak to his sister. The wedding photos are in a box in my mother’s attic. And sometimes, on anniversaries, Sloane books the Grand Plaza honeymoon suite and I wear the dress and she shows me exactly what she wanted to do on our wedding night.
The only vow I ever kept was the one I made to her — in the coat check, six months before the wedding, when she kissed me and I whispered “I’m yours” without meaning to.
I meant it. I still do.
