Chapter 4 - The Godmother's Toast
The day of the baby shower was unseasonably warm. Claire had transformed her massive backyard into a Pinterest-perfect wonderland. There were pastel balloon arches, catered mimosa bars, and a massive flower wall for taking photos. Over fifty guests were mingling, laughing, and drinking. Damon was working the crowd, charming my mother, shaking hands with Owen’s father. He looked like the picture of devoted fatherhood. I wore a flowing white dress, playing the glowing, grateful mother-to-be. Every time Claire hugged me, every time she adjusted my flower crown, a jolt of pure adrenaline shot through my veins.
Owen was quiet, standing near the outdoor bar, gripping a glass of whiskey. We had spent three weeks preparing for this exact moment. Our lawyers were on standby. Our bank accounts had been quietly separated. At 2:00 PM, Claire clinked her champagne glass with a silver spoon. “Everyone! If I could have your attention!” The garden grew quiet. Guests gathered around the patio, smiling warmly. Damon stepped up beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist. I let him.
“As Maya’s best friend, and the honorary godmother to this beautiful little girl,” Claire began, pressing a hand to her chest, her eyes shining with fake tears. “I just want to say how incredibly blessed we all are. Maya, Damon... you two are the definition of true love. You are going to be the most amazing parents.” The crowd 'awed' in unison. “To celebrate, Owen and I put together a little slideshow of the happy couple’s journey!” She gestured to the large projector screen set up under the patio awning.
Owen stepped forward holding a laptop. He looked at Claire. Then he looked at Damon. “Actually,” Owen said, his voice carrying over the silent garden. “Maya and I made some last-minute edits to the presentation.” Claire blinked, confused. “Oh? Okay, babe, go ahead and play it.” Owen pressed the spacebar.
The first image flashed onto the massive screen. It wasn't a photo of Damon and me. It was the screenshot of our security logs. Blown up. Massive. Claire’s pin code. Six dates. A murmur rippled through the crowd. “What is this?” Damon’s mother asked. Damon’s arm went rigid around my waist. He dropped his hand like I had caught fire.
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Owen pressed the spacebar again. The screen changed. It was the bank statement. $15,000 for the Aspen Chalet. “Damon,” my father said, stepping forward. “What is the meaning of this?” “Wait, Owen, turn it off,” Claire stammered, her face flushing crimson. “There’s a glitch—” Owen pressed the spacebar a third time. The final photo appeared. Full screen. Undeniable. The unmade bed. Damon’s discarded shirt. The champagne lace camisole under the bench. And the closet door cracked open, showing Claire’s distinct engagement ring gripping my coat.
The silence in the backyard was absolute. It was deafening. No one breathed. Damon’s face turned the color of ash. He took a stumbling step backward. Claire let out a choked, horrifying gasp, covering her mouth as she stared at her own betrayal broadcasted ten feet high.
