I didn’t scream.

I simply stared at Preston’s face.

He looked calm.

That was the worst part.

“What happens now?”

I asked.

“The district attorney could move.”

“Could?”

“They’d prefer one of them to turn on the other.”

“Will they?”

“Not voluntarily.”

I looked at the wedding invitation sitting on my desk.

Saturday.

Six o’clock.

Halcyon Crown Hotel.

Imperial Ballroom.

Then I thought about Preston asking what kind of speech I intended to give.

An evidence speech.

And suddenly, I knew exactly what to do.

The wedding looked like heaven designed by people who had never been there.

Thousands of white orchids cascaded from crystal stands.

Candles floated in glass cylinders.

A string orchestra played beneath gold-trimmed balconies.

Five hundred guests filled the Imperial Ballroom.

Politicians.

Business executives.

Celebrities.

People Preston desperately wanted to impress.

People Shelby desperately wanted to envy her.

She wore a custom silk gown worth more than some houses.

And on her left hand was

my ring

.

I stood beside her before the ceremony while a photographer adjusted our positions.

Shelby squeezed my fingers.

“Thank you for not ruining today.”

I looked at her.

“For what?”

“For being gracious.”

I almost smiled.

Instead I touched the ring lightly.

“Preston really gave you this?”

She beamed.

“The night he proposed.”

“Where?”

“His apartment.”

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

She turned toward the mirror.

“It’s strange.

After everything, I feel like this ring was always meant for me.”

I met her reflection.

“Maybe it was.”

She didn’t understand.

Neither did I.

Not yet.

The ceremony lasted twenty-eight minutes.

Shelby cried through her vows.

Preston promised loyalty.

I nearly choked.

Then everyone moved into the ballroom for dinner.

At 9:17, the master of ceremonies stood.

“And now, someone very special to both the bride and groom would like to say a few words.

Please welcome Vivienne Blackwell.”

Applause.

I walked toward the stage.

Preston watched me carefully.

Shelby smiled too brightly.

Behind me, their engagement portrait covered the giant LED wall.

I placed my hands on the podium.

“My name is Vivienne Blackwell.”

The room quieted.

“I’ve known Shelby Monroe for twenty-two years.”

Shelby raised her glass.

“I was married to Preston for thirteen.”

His jaw tightened.

“So I suppose that makes me unusually qualified to speak about both of them.”

Laughter.

Nervous.

Scattered.

I smiled.

“I had prepared something sentimental.”

Preston relaxed slightly.

“But then I remembered Preston never cared much for sentiment.”

His face changed.

Shelby lowered her glass.

“So instead, I thought we’d talk about timing.”

The ballroom went silent.

“Eight months ago, my mother died at St.

Catherine’s Medical Center at exactly 11:43 p.m.”

Shelby’s face whitened.

“That same night, while I sat beside my mother’s bed, Preston and Shelby told me they were unavailable.”

Preston stood.

“Vivienne.”

I looked toward the technician.

“Play the first file.”