The taste of betrayal isn’t bitter, despite what the poets and the heartbroken songwriters claim. In my experience, betrayal tastes like lavender and sugary buttercream. It tastes like a lie wrapped in pink fondant.
My name is Sofia Valdés. I am twenty-six years old, seven months pregnant, and as I sat in the plush pink velvet armchair at the center of the room, I felt less like a guest of honor and more like a sacrificial lamb. The air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of gossip. Around me, balloons bobbed against the ceiling like trapped spirits, and the forced smiles of high society gleamed under the crystal chandeliers.
Standing in front of me was Marcos, my husband. He was the charming architect who had swept me off my feet, the man with the jawline of a movie star and a soul that I was beginning to suspect was made of drywall and empty promises.
And beside him, holding a silver tray with a single, ornate cupcake, was Clara.
Clara was Marcos’s “efficient” personal assistant. She was the woman who organized his schedule, bought my birthday gifts, and, as I would discover in the most agonizing way possible, warmed his bed while I sat at home knitting booties.
