“When they found out I was getting married, they offered me a chance to ‘fix my mistake.’”
“What offer?”
“They said they’d restore my access to the family money if I came back. If I returned with my wife.”
I blinked. “What does this have to do with you faking your death at our wedding?”
He glanced around the bus, then back at me. “I agreed.”
“What?”
“They transferred the money a few days before the wedding. A lot of it. Enough that we’d never have to worry again. I moved it right away.”
I stared at him. “And now what? You came back from the dead to tell me we’re rich?”
“I came back to get you. So we can disappear.”
“Why would we disappear?”
“You don’t understand.” He let out a harsh breath. “I lied. I never planned to go back to my parents or let them control our lives.”
I leaned back in my seat. “That’s why you faked your death? To steal from your parents?”
“It’s freedom,” he said, leaning closer. “Don’t you see? If I had kept my promise, they would control everything—our lives, our future, our kids. This way, we get the money without the strings.”
I covered my mouth with my hand.
He kept going, almost eager now. “We can go anywhere. Start over. I’ll give you the life you deserve.”
I looked at his face and saw no real guilt. No understanding of what he had put me through.
“You let me plan your funeral,” I said.
