“What happens if she figures it out?” Kendra asked.
Vanessa laughed again—that mocking, musical laugh that had always sounded so warm in public:
“She won’t. Olivia never realizes anything until it’s already too late. She thinks loyalty is a real currency.”
I sat in the dark, my hand pressed flat against my sternum.
My name was Olivia Mercer.
For twenty-six years, I had believed that being kind, calm, and discreet was the proper way to walk through this world. I had allowed Vanessa to take charge of the rehearsal dinner. I had allowed her to hold the family heirloom rings. I had smiled when she touched Ethan’s forearm at our engagement party, telling myself that jealousy was an ugly, vulgar emotion beneath the dignity of my mother’s daughter.
Now, the veil had been torn from my eyes with the concussive force of an iron ram.
Yet beneath the initial shock, there was no trembling panic. There were no hot, helpless tears.
