Five years into her marriage, Remy considered herself one of the lucky ones. She loved her husband, Michael—a quiet, brilliant man in finance—and she loved her life as a third-grade teacher. Their world wasn’t extravagant: a cozy apartment, an aging Honda, and Friday night takeout from the neighborhood Italian restaurant. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real.
So when an invitation arrived for the wedding of Jessica, one of Michael’s colleagues, Remy’s excitement quickly turned to anxiety. The event promised to be a lavish affair—hosted by a family whose wealth was whispered about even in Michael’s high-rise office. For Remy, the thought of mingling with people who lived in a world of designer gowns and weekend getaways to Europe was daunting.
After weeks of searching, she finally found the perfect dress: a simple navy-blue gown from Macy’s, bought on sale with a coupon. She paired it with nude heels and her grandmother’s pearl necklace, feeling proud of her modest yet elegant look. “You look beautiful,” Michael said that morning, kissing her forehead. “Everything will be perfect.”
The venue was breathtaking—a sprawling estate with marble fountains and manicured gardens. As luxury cars lined the entrance, Remy couldn’t help but feel out of place. But she reminded herself: she belonged here because her husband did, and they were a team.
At first, everything went smoothly. The ceremony was lovely, the food exquisite, and Remy even began to relax. That changed the moment Mrs. Patricia Patterson, the bride’s mother, approached their table.
“You must be Michael’s wife,” Mrs. Patterson said with a cool smile, her diamond earrings catching the light. “How quaint.”
Remy extended her hand politely. “Yes, I’m Remy. It’s such a beautiful wedding.”
“Oh, we didn’t exactly invite you,” the woman said with a laugh that cut like glass. “Michael was invited. But I suppose it’s nice he brought help.”
The air seemed to tighten around them. Her companions—immaculately dressed women with surgically smooth faces—snickered softly. “Where did you find that dress, dear?” one asked. “It’s… practical.”
Remy’s cheeks flushed, but she stood tall. “I’m a teacher,” she said. “I love what I do.”
“How noble,” Mrs. Patterson said, her smile never reaching her eyes. “Teaching is important. Someone has to do the simpler jobs.”
The insults continued, each word a little sharper than the last, until Remy felt her heart pounding in her chest. Then came the cruelest cut of all—Mrs. Patterson’s suggestion that she join “the catering staff” since she might feel “more among her peers.”
That was when Remy heard the familiar sound of Michael’s footsteps behind her—steady, deliberate, and dangerously calm.