The Text Message That Started It All

The sound of keyboard typing echoed continuously throughout the office. I stared at the design drawing on the computer screen, my fingers hovering over the mouse, my heart full of anticipation for trying on my wedding dress next week. The cell phone in my pocket suddenly vibrated. I frowned. It was working hours; usually, no one messaged at this time. I glanced at the screen—a number I didn't recognize. The text read: "Bernard Jackson is in Room 510 at Cloud-fall Hotel. A surprise awaits you." I scoffed. It was probably spam. Bernard had said this morning he was meeting a client. How could he be at a hotel? I tucked the phone back into my pocket and refocused on the design draft before me. Minutes later, the phone vibrated again—still from the same unknown number. "If you don't come soon, the surprise will turn into a scare." I felt a bit irritated and reached out to press the mute button, thinking I'd deal with it after lunch break. Rose, sitting at the adjacent desk, leaned over and smiled, saying, "Lena, your phone has vibrated several times. Is Bernard urging you to eat?" I shook my head and said it was probably spam messages. Rose raised her eyebrows. "Even so, you should check. What if something urgent really happened?" I thought about it; Bernard has been negotiating an important project lately, so I hoped nothing had gone wrong. I picked up my phone and unlocked it. Besides those two messages, an unknown number had sent a photo. The photo showed the hotel room door, with the room number 510 clearly visible. My heart skipped a beat, and my fingertips grew cold. I'd seen Bernard Jackson's car keys this morning; he said he was taking the company car to meet a client. But in the photo, at the end of the corridor, I could faintly make out the outline of his black sedan. I couldn't sit still any longer. I told the team leader I had a family emergency, grabbed my bag, and rushed out of the office. The ride-hailing app showed a ten-minute wait nearby, so I bit my lip and flagged down a taxi right away. "Driver, Cloud-fall Hotel. Please hurry." The taxi sped along, and I watched the streets blur past the window, my heart pounding faster and faster. I kept telling myself over and over—it had to be a misunderstanding. Bernard Jackson wasn't that kind of man. We're getting married next month; the wedding dress has already been picked out. How could he betray me? But the messages from that unknown number stabbed at my heart like needles, making it impossible to calm down.