Luxe Lies & Black Ties

The invitation was one of those heavy, embossed things that felt more like a college diploma than a request to attend a wedding.

No one had inhabited the apartment next door for months, maybe even years, so it struck me as extremely odd that it sat on the doorstep of 4A. The crisp envelope was lined with beautiful gold trim, the kind of summons that immediately tells you this event is going to be something you’ll need to arrive in a limo for.

I couldn’t help but be intrigued. The words “Plus One Allowed” were basically leaping off the paper, and I felt a desire to experience a touch of luxury for once. My interest was beyond piqued. Free food and an open bar was enough for me. No one would need to know who I am, right?

Glancing both ways, I swiftly snatched the invitation from the floor and ran into 4B.

—

On the day of the event, I pulled up to the gate of the grand estate, a sprawling mansion surrounded by meticulously manicured gardens. I wore a long emerald gown that had definitely seen better days, but still hugged the right places. While I applied my makeup with care, it was just enough to blend in with the other guests. As I drove up to the entrance, I imagined I was someone important, someone who belonged here. That was the fun of it, no?

Of course, all this shattered the minute I pulled up to the valet (yes, valet), apologizing for my heavily beaten up Toyota Camry. “No limos were available at such short notice,” I lied, chuckling as mahogany reached my cheeks.

The mansion loomed ahead, its grand facade intimidating even under the golden light of the setting sun. The security at the entrance was tight—unusually so for a wedding. A chill ran down my spine, but I brushed it off, telling myself it was just nerves. Still, there was something about the guards' piercing stares that made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. I overheard snippets of conversations about “ensuring everything goes smoothly” and that “the plan is in motion.” Chalking it up to chats about the wedding itinerary, I suppressed my curiosity.

The ceremony was set on a magnificent, bright green lawn, rows of white chairs facing an elaborate floral arch. The air was filled with the scents of fresh-cut grass and roses. It truly was the epitome of elegance. Yet, as I took a seat at the back, I noticed how the guests seemed… off. They were too attentive, too aware of their surroundings. Every now and then, someone would glance in my direction, and I’d quickly look away, pretending to be absorbed in the beauty of the occasion. Did they know I didn't belong here?

Then, a sudden distant police siren caused me to tense—a triggering symbol of a past I still desperately try to forget daily. Why were they all the way up here in the hills? The siren faded as abruptly as it had begun, leaving me with an anxious twitch in my chest that I struggled to ignore.

Attempting to brush it off, and fully intending to go the whole night without a single ounce of human interaction, I took a seat at the back of the turf. The (model-like) bride and groom exchanged vows, their words full of love and devotion. It was beautiful, and I was enjoying the fantasy of being part of such a glamorous occasion. For a moment, I almost forgot where I was.

Once the ceremony ended, the reception was held in a lavishly decorated outdoor tent, string-lights draped across the skeleton, pipes draped with sheer, white curtains. Everyone was lively, champagne flowed, music blasted. The room was in high spirits and I began to feel like I was almost fitting in, even though I remained an observer. I merely soaked in the opulence, drinking every Moscow mule and eating every bite-sized deviled egg I could muster.

It was then that I noticed him. 

A man standing all alone by the bar. He was striking—tall with an unbelievably defined jawline, dressed in a perfectly tailored, black suit. Somehow, something made him turn his head, and he caught my eye, offering a friendly smile that made something warm build in my stomach. Feeling the familiar scarlet rise to my cheeks, I sunk further into my corner.

As I watched him, I caught snippets of conversation around me: “They'll be here soon,” and “It’s all in place.” My curiosity grew. Wasn't the ceremony over?

Moments later, a deep voice behind me, almost in a whisper, said, “Seems like everyone’s having a great time.” I turned to see his sharp, angled features before I could even meet his eyes, “Well, almost everyone.”

I cleared my throat. “People-watching is an advanced sport.” I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “And anyway, I’m just here to support the bride.” I was amused by how easy the lie slipped off my tongue.

He smiled, “And I’m here to support the groom.”

We stared at the laughing, dancing, drunk, exuberant faces in front of us. Their happiness was honestly infectious.

He leaned closer to me, his warm breath on my ear, and said, “That’s the beauty of being a plus-one at a wedding, I guess. You can be whoever you want to be.”

—

He made the rest of the night feel like five minutes. 

We continued talking, and I found myself enjoying his company way too much. His name was Samuel, and he was annoyingly charming and unbelievably easy to talk to. 

We moved to a quieter corner of the tent, where our conversation flowed effortlessly. He had an air of mystery about him, which only made him more intriguing. I adored his interest in me. It was almost as if he wanted to memorize every detail as bible.

"Wyoming?"

"Oh, don't knock it 'till you've been." I rolled my eyes.

"I did my state project on it in sixth grade. Lots of buffalos, no?"

I began to ramble, "You're thinking of bisons. It's because there's a city in Wyoming called Buffalo in Johnson County. It's not the capital, because the capital's Cheyenne, and a lot of people get that mixed up, plus it's where I'm from, so my pet peeve is when people get it wrong. There's actually a ranch off the I-25 super close to Cheyenne that has, like, 3,000 bisons if you..."

As the evening progressed, Samuel and I danced together, lost in the music and the intimacy of our conversation. There was an undeniable chemistry between us, and I felt a sense of connection that was both thrilling and unexpected.

"I like you, Wyoming."

"I like you too, Sam-I-Am."

Drunk off a concoction of drinks I acquired from both the bar and those nice gentlemen with the ties and trays, I couldn’t keep to myself any more. At this point, we were ranting, shouting, yapping, back and forth, faces nearly touching as we yelled above the music:

“You’re kidding!” he laughed. “The worst I’ve ever done was scan an extra chapstick at Target.”

With playful sarcasm, I shoved his shoulder, “How could you?”

“I’m kidding. I’m sure I’ve done worse,” he assured.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Mm, I punched a guy outside of O’Neil’s the other day.”

“Drunk bar fights don’t count.” I babble, “Come on, Sam. I mean a genuine, real, United States of America crime. Vandalism? Trespassing?”

“Street race?”

“Did you get caught?”

“Well, no-”

“Then that doesn’t count either.”

He grinned, but there was something in his eyes—something dark that sent a shiver down my spine. For a brief moment, I wondered if he was joking. There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before, but I dismissed it. I was too drunk, too caught up in the night to care.

“If I tell you, will you remember it tomorrow?”

I smirked, “I don’t even know what day it is anymore, Samwise Gamgee."

Smirking, he leans closer and whispers…:

“Insider trading.”

My eyes widen. This beautiful, gorgeous man? There’s no way.

I shake my head, unimpressed, “Is that how you got the nice suit?”

He bursts out laughing. “Nothing fazes you, huh? You're not going to ask for details?”

“Well, everyone’s got shit. A little money laundering doesn’t mean much these days. If anything, I respect that you’re… ‘pursuing financial success.’”

He shakes his head right back. “Come on, look at you in that beautiful dress, that beautiful face-” (I blushed) “I know I got you beat.”

Similarly, I felt a nerve twitch in myself, but I was far too drunk to truly notice (or honestly, care). I felt my pride bubbling inside me.

I sat up tall and sized him up: “Can you keep a secret?”

He nodded, “Of course.”

“Okay.” I stared him dead in the eye, “It has to do with my silly little Toyota Camry.”

He laughed, “The red one?”

I blinked at him.

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“What?”

“That it’s red.”

He paused for a second. “It’s in the valet lot.”

Obviously.

I glared at him, “Her name’s Ruby.”

“A stunning name indeed. So what did Ruby do?”

I was too drunk off laughter and the alcohol basically running in my veins at this point. For some reason, I felt like I could tell him anything and we could figure it out. Is that crazy? It’s definitely crazy.

I leaned towards him, vision blurring, and mouthed:

“I helped someone bury a body.”

Then, the room shifted.

It started subtly. I noticed a few guests whispering, their eyes darting toward our corner of the tent. There was a palpable tension in the air, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. I copied their daze, staring at them straight back.

“Hey, do you see-” I began to say to Samuel, turning back to face him.

It was then that I felt the shiny, black glock pressed to my temple. 

Samuel held it right to my head, no flinch in sight. His eyes were focused, his demeanor a sudden blend of determination and stoicism. Two seconds ago, I could’ve sworn he was beyond plastered, drunker than anyone in this room.

The music shut off and everyone’s eyes were on me. The bride and groom stepped forward, holding their own guns straight at me, their newlywed glow replaced by serious, authoritative expressions. Every single guest in the crowd slowly brought out their own weapons, also aimed directly at me.

“Ava Leigh Madigan, you’re under arrest.”

The cold metal of the handcuffs burned my alcohol-warmed skin as Samuel shoved them on my wrists.

The cry of the police siren returned, much heavier now, louder, taunting me. Berating me. Laughing at me. It sounded too much like her screams that night.

I felt the years, the fear, the anger, the heat, the rush, bubbling up through my neck, up to my ears, directly to my eyes. How could he know? How could any of them know? I got out. I got away. We escaped. I protected him. It was self-defense. There’s no e-

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“Sam-”

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

He shoved me out of my chair, forcing me to stand up in my dumb, ugly, green dress.

“Do you understand?” Samuel's voice was cold, professional—completely different from the man I had been laughing with all night.

I examined every single soul in the room, feeling the facade of glamour disappear from right under me. Yet, recognizing that I could no longer run away, that my years of running had finally been put to an end, I felt a sick smile tug at my lips. I couldn’t help it. I laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that echoed in the silent room.

“I do.”

As Samuel led me through the crowd, I saw the final nail in my coffin. There, standing near the exit, was a man I hadn’t seen in years—Detective Marcus Thompson. The one who had been hunting me down ever since that night. The one who had promised he’d catch me, no matter how far I ran or how well I hid.

His cold, triumphant smile made it all too clear. This was never just a random wedding. 4A remained completely unoccupied. It was all a methodical trap, meticulously planned and executed. They had known I would take the bait, that I wouldn’t be able to resist the allure of luxury and anonymity after all these years of hiding in the shadows. And like a fool, I had walked right into it.

As the police car doors slammed shut, I watched through the window as they swarmed around Ruby—the final piece of evidence they needed. The grand estate, the flashing lights, the faces of those I’d fooled—all blurred together as the car began to move. 

But something inside me, something twisted and defiant, wouldn’t let me look away. The weight of my past was lifting, replaced by a chilling sense of triumph. Ego, even. They did all this for me? It was a bitter victory, but a victory nonetheless. The reality of my situation should’ve weighed me down, crushed me under the regret and fear. Instead, it did the opposite. I felt lighter. Almost... free.

I leaned back, eyes closed, a slow smile spreading across my face. No more running. No more hiding. It was over. 

And in that strange, twisted way, I had finally won.