The Thursday Lunch Club. It sounded harmless enough—like something out of a cheesy rom-com. The idea of women gathering over wine, swapping stories, and enjoying each other's company. But beneath the surface, it was far more complicated.

I was the outsider. The widow. The newcomer who, somehow, was dragged into their web not because I belonged but because grief had a way of making you latch onto anything—even strangers. Especially sharp-edged strangers who looked at me like I was something fragile they couldn't trust not to shatter.

The Lunch Club was their world—Chlóe’s world. She was the queen bee, the one who always sat at the head of the table, gliding through the room like she was the center of it all. Her silver hoops glinted, her smile never slipped, and her laugh—well, it was like a siren song to anyone who wanted to belong.

I had learned the rules quickly. Smile. Laugh. Don’t outshine anyone, especially Chlóe. Because, well, when you're new to a group like this, you follow their lead or get lost in the shadows.

Frankly, I was too distracted by my grief to care about their politics at first. Phil’s funeral had left me broken, but somehow, I was expected to be the new, shiny addition to their perfect world. They didn't want to be my friends. They wanted a reminder that they still had it together—while I stumbled through my new reality.

But I thought, "Maybe this is just what I need." At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

By the third month, I was in. I knew their secrets. Marcy hated her ex-husband but loved the alimony check that kept her in expensive shoes. Debbie’s youngest had moved out, and she clutched at photos like they were the last lifeline she had. And Chlóe? Chlóe, my dear, sweet Chlóe—well, she was an enigma wrapped in a designer dress, always smiling, but never revealing anything too personal. She ruled the table, and we all quietly obeyed.

Then came the day I made the mistake of mentioning Barney.

I had barely let the words slip before I felt the temperature in the room drop. It started off innocently enough, I swear. We were enjoying the second bottle of wine when I mentioned, almost shyly, how I’d been seeing someone new. Casual, but it was nice to have someone to talk to.

"Barney," I said, hesitating only for a moment. "He's an architect."

I could feel the shift before I saw it. Marcy’s smile froze. Debbie’s fingers froze on her iced tea, and Chlóe—oh, Chlóe, she didn’t even blink, but I saw the subtle change in her posture. Her smile, the one she wore like armor, shifted just slightly. She was calculating. She was no longer the charming hostess. Now, she was the predator, and I was the prey.

"Barney the architect? Blonde? Gorgeous?" she asked, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. I laughed nervously, thinking maybe I’d missed something.

But no. Chlóe knew something I didn’t. And soon enough, I’d realize what that something was.

The mood at the table shifted like a dark cloud had rolled over us. The warmth drained away, replaced with a chilly silence that felt more like an interrogation than a lunch. I tried to laugh it off, but the feeling in my st0mach—the one I couldn’t ignore—grew stronger. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Horney, my best friend, who had been dealing with my grandma at the church earlier that day.

I barely read the text when I glanced up at the mirror in the corner of the room. My breath caught. On the mirror, in thick, bold red lipstick, was the simple, chilling message:

Check his phone.

There it was. The photo beside it: Frank, holding a woman close, her face buried in his chest.

My heart stopped. The room spun. My hands felt cold, and I could hardly breathe. But my fingers moved faster than my thoughts. I snapped a photo of the mirror and sent it to Horney.

Was this you??

No reply.

The room felt too quiet now, and I could barely think. I had no choice but to go straight to Frank. I had to know.

I opened the door to Frank’s room and found him there, casually adjusting his tie, looking like he hadn’t a care in the world. He smiled when he saw me.

"Everything okay, babe?" he asked.

I nodded, but my mind was racing. The message. The photo. Why was this happening now?

"Actually, I need to ask you something," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I need to check your phone."

His expression faltered. For the first time, I saw panic in his eyes.

"Why would you need to check my phone?" he asked, his voice rising.

"Just… I need to," I said, pleading now. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew I had to look. I needed to see the truth for myself.

Frank's voice snapped, sharp and defensive. “Do you not trust me? Why would you ask me this right before we’re about to get married?"

I opened my mouth but couldn’t find the words. My st0mach dropped.

"I’m sorry," I said softly, feeling like I was losing control of everything. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.” I turned away from him, feeling utterly defeated.

I walked back to my room, my mind spinning, but just as I sat down, my phone buzzed again.

“What the hell is that??” Horney’s message blinked on my screen. I was already typing back when I realized what she had written: It wasn’t me.

But it’s your lipstick, I replied.

It’s a different shade, she answered.

A different shade? It was Horney’s lipstick. But if it wasn’t her, then who the hell was it? My hands were shaking as I put my phone down. I had to know the truth, and I couldn’t wait any longer.

Suddenly, the door knocked again. Frank stood in the doorway, holding his phone in his hand. “Amelia,” he said, his tone softer. “I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.”

He handed me the phone. “Here. Look through it. Just don’t think I have something to hide.”

I took the phone, my hands cold, and scrolled through everything—texts, photos, call history. Everything seemed spotless. Too spotless. The absence of anything felt like a red flag.

“What was I supposed to be looking for?” Frank asked, his voice now laced with concern.

“Nothing,” I said quietly, handing his phone back. “We need to get ready.”

He nodded, and I closed the door behind him. My mind raced. There was something here, something I wasn’t seeing.

I turned back to the mirror, my breath catching. There it was—the photo, stuck with pink gum. I knew immediately what it meant. I walked to the bridesmaids' room, where Stacey was sitting, chewing gum, like nothing was wrong.

“Stacey,” I said calmly, “I need you to explain something.”

She looked up at me, her eyes flickering to the photo. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but I saw the guilt in her eyes.

“You’re the only one who could’ve put that gum on the photo,” I said firmly.

Stacey sighed. "I’ve known for a while," she admitted. "And I kept quiet because of Barney, but I can’t anymore."

It h!t me like a ton of bricks. “What are you talking about?” I whispered.

“Barney and Frank—" she started, "they’ve been together even before you and Frank. They’ve been hiding this from you.”

Everything I thought I knew shattered. My heart broke into a thousand pieces.

I turned to Frank later, after the truth came out. "How could you? How could you do this to me?" I asked, my voice trembling with the weight of betrayal.

Frank was silent. His answer was the one thing I had feared the most.

Nothing.

And so, I walked away from the life I thought I knew.