Waylen Berg

The crystal chandeliers of ~Happy Ever After~'s ballroom cast a sharp, cold light across two centuries of family pride. As a server vetted through three rounds of background checks, I kept my eyes on the tray, navigating around diamond-draped elites who treated the annual ball like an auction house. In the shadowed alcove near the terrace, Waylen’s voice remained low, laced with quiet fury. "You held his gaze, Deyna. A second too long." "Mark was telling a joke," Deyna replied, her composure unbothered, her smile practiced & thin. I stepped forward, extending the silver tray. Waylen snapped a flute from the tray without looking at me & walked out into the night air. He did not cool off. An hour later, away from the security detail near the garden gates, he leaned against the stone pillar where I stood resting my feet having a little break. He smiled, slurring his charm under the moonlight, talking about escape, asking if I wanted out of the apron. When he pulled a cheap silver band from his pocket & proposed, it looked like a lifeline. I didn't question the suddenness. I said yes before the moment wore off. And we got married the same night. He had pulled some strings to achieve this & I found it romantic. By dawn, the golden opportunity collapsed. The hotel room was quiet. The side table held a crisp two-hundred-dollar bill, weighted down by a generic keycard envelope. His scribbled note was concise: "Room is settled. Take a cab". Months passed in silence until the headlines broke. Deyna’s wedding had been the event of the decade, followed swiftly by Waylen’s arrest on their honeymoon in St. Lucia. Bigamy. Standing in the interrogation viewing room, I watched Waylen sit across from his lawyer. His cuffs clinked against the metal table as he rubbed his temples, staring at the marriage certificate bearing his signature & our names. His face showed no guilt, no deception, only a profound, hollow blankness. He genuinely had no memory of the night.