Because on our fourth date, when I warned him my family was “a lot,” he asked:
“Do you want me to fix anything?”
I said no.
He replied:
“Then I’ll listen.”
I almost married him that night.
Helena whispered:
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
I looked at her.
“I wanted something that belonged to me before Dad could evaluate it.”
She flinched.
“I didn’t want him asking what Julian earned.”
“What his family owned.”
“Whether he was impressive enough.”
“Whether he could have done better than me.”
“I didn’t want our marriage becoming another Langford ranking exercise.”
Helena’s voice broke.
“You thought we would do that?”
“I knew Dad would.”
“And I didn’t trust you to stop him.”
That hurt.
I saw it.
But truth is not cruelty merely because someone wishes it were different.
Before Helena could answer, the restroom door opened.
Maren entered.
Still in her wedding gown.
“You’re here.”
She looked genuinely relieved.
“I thought you left.”
“I almost did.”
Her eyes dropped.
“I’m sorry.”
“For Dad?”
“For laughing earlier.”
That surprised me.
“You laughed?”
“At the first joke.”
“Not the fountain.”
“I didn’t know he was going to push you.”
Her voice shook.
“I saw you fall.”
“I wanted to run outside.”
“Then Dad waved everybody off like it was some planned bit.”
“I froze.”
I looked at her.
Maren had been Victor’s favorite for as long as I could remember.
She received praise where I received commentary.
Approval where I received correction.
But suddenly she did not look like the golden child.
She looked like a bride whose father had hijacked her wedding to humiliate her sister.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight,” she said.
“That’s good.”
She almost smiled.
Then:
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I wanted you beside me today.”
I looked at her dress.
“You have Camille.”
Camille Rhodes was her maid of honor.
“I asked Camille after you never replied.”
“To what?”
“The message I sent you in February.”
“I never got a message.”
Maren frowned.
“I sent you a whole letter.”
“Email?”
“Yes.”
“To which address?”
She named an old account connected to the Langford Civic Trust, where I had once helped with legal administration.
“That email hasn’t worked in more than a year.”
Maren looked confused.
“Dad gave me the address.”
Something passed between us.
Not proof.
Not yet.
Just a tiny crack in a story we had both believed.
Then Maren noticed the ring hanging beneath the neckline of my dress.
I normally wore it on a chain around my family.
Not because Julian asked me to.
Because I did not want the questions.
Maren reached toward it.
“Is that a wedding band?”
I pulled the chain free.
“Yes.”
She stared.
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“To who?”
“Julian Mercer.”
Maren dropped into the nearest chair.
