I smoothed her crooked flower crown and waved the nanny over with the calmest hand I could manage.
“Are you mad?”
“Not at you. Never at you.”
I almost stood, the veil whispering against the floor, but then I stopped. If I was going to set this room on fire, I needed two minutes alone first.
I smoothed her crooked flower crown and waved the nanny over with the calmest hand I could manage.
“Take her for cake, please. The little one with the strawberry. She earned it.”
Sophie went without looking back. I rose slowly, gathered my veil in one fist, and asked the wedding planner for two minutes of privacy.
The reply came in ninety seconds.
In the side hallway, behind a curtain of white hydrangeas, I pulled out my phone. My fingers shook against the screen. I texted Lena, my late husband’s estate attorney, the only other person I trusted with every detail of Sophie’s trust.
“Did anyone request paperwork on Sophie’s trust recently. Anyone at all.”
The reply came in ninety seconds.
“Your brother. Three weeks ago. He said you authorized it. I told him I needed to hear it from you directly before I released anything — he never followed up. I have the email. Are you safe.”
I read it twice. Then a third time, because my eyes refused to hold the words.
“You disappeared. People are asking.”
“Darling?”
Evan stepped into the hallway, his jacket open, two champagne flutes in his hands. He looked at me the way he had looked at me for eight months, soft, attentive, exactly enough.
“You disappeared. People are asking.”
I made myself smile.
“Just catching my breath.”
He touched my cheek with the back of his fingers. I let him. I needed to test something first.
He kissed my temple and walked back toward the ballroom, whistling.
“Evan, I’ve been thinking. Next week, I want to move Sophie’s trust to a new firm. The old one keeps pushing fees. Lena agrees.”
His face flickered. It was the smallest thing, a twitch under his left eye, gone in half a second. The careful smile slid back into place.
“Whatever you think is best, love.”
His hand closed around my wrist. Just for an instant. Just tight enough.
“We can talk about it after the honeymoon.”
“Of course,” I said.
He kissed my temple and walked back toward the ballroom, whistling.
I found it. Eight months ago. The dinner party where Peter introduced me to Evan.
I stood in the hallway and stared at the wall. My pulse was somewhere behind my teeth. I opened my phone again, scrolling backward through months of voice memos I had made for myself, grocery lists, reminders, things I wanted to tell my dead husband when I could not sleep.
I found it. Eight months ago. The dinner party where Peter introduced me to Evan.
I had hit record at the table to remember a recipe the hostess promised me, then carried the phone with me when I got up to follow her toward the kitchen for the saffron. I had set it down on the console by the hallway arch while she rummaged in a cupboard. I had forgotten to stop it.
