On my wedding day, I expected a few surprises—teary speeches, maybe a misplaced ring—but nothing prepared me for my stepmom’s grand entrance.
She walked into the venue in a full-length white gown, shimmering with pearls and lace. Gasps rippled through the crowd. My dad’s face paled, while my mom clenched her fists. I forced a smile, but inside, my stomach twisted.
“Beautiful dress,” I managed, trying to keep my voice even.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, touching my arm. “I thought it would match the theme.”
My mom had enough. “You mean the theme where only the bride wears white?”
Before my stepmom could respond, my aunt chimed in. “Fitting, though, considering how she stole a husband before.”
Silence. Eyes darted between my dad and stepmom.
My heart pounded. What?
That day, I learned my stepmom wasn’t just a woman in white—she was a living ghost of secrets long buried. And this time, they wouldn’t stay hidden.
