The heavy silver handles of the solid white double doors felt ice-cold against Margarethe's trembling fingers.
Margarethe: Richard? Are you in there?
She eased the thick wooden door open just an inch, peeking through the narrow crack into the private bridal suite.
Margarethe: Oh my God...
Inside the brightly lit suite, near the floor-to-ceiling windows draped in sheer white curtains, her husband of twenty-five years stood with his arms wrapped tightly around a young woman in a lace wedding dress. Richard was pressing a passionate kiss onto the lips of the bride—the very woman who was supposed to marry their son in less than twenty minutes.
Margarethe violently pressed her hand over her mouth, choking back a terrified scream as the reality crushed her chest.
Margarethe: No... this can't be happening...
She backed away from the doors, her high heels clicking frantically against the white marble floor of the sunlit hallway. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps as she spun around, searching for help. Standing right behind her in the wide corridor was her twenty-six-year-old son, Julian. He looked dashing in his tailored grey suit, a single white rose boutonniere pinned neatly to his lapel.
Margarethe: Julian! Thank God!
Julian: Mom? What's wrong?
Margarethe: Your father... your father is in that room right now with Sarah!
Julian: I know.
Margarethe froze, her mind spinning into total chaos as she stared at her son's stone-cold face. He wasn't shaking, he wasn't crying, and his eyes held no trace of surprise. Julian stood there with an eerie, unbothered calm, a faint, dark smile touching the corners of his lips as his mother gripped the lapels of his suit in sheer panic.
Margarethe: Then stop this wedding right now! Call the police! Call security!
Julian leaned in close, his dark eyes fixated on hers as he whispered two chilling words that made her blood run cold.
Julian: Not yet.