Ethan wasn’t dragged away in handcuffs beneath the chandeliers.
Life is rarely that theatrical.
He was escorted into a private conference room with attorneys and detectives while the evidence was secured and statements were taken.
Sabrina went too.
Before she left, she stopped beside me.
Her mascara had smudged.
The diamonds suddenly looked ridiculous.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at her.
“No, you’re not.”
She flinched.
I continued.
“You’re sorry he did to you what you helped him do to me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I didn’t know about the medication.”
“I believe you.”
“I didn’t know about the money.”
“I believe that too.”
She swallowed.
“I thought he was leaving you.”
“You knew he had a six-week-old son.”
Her eyes dropped.
That was the line she couldn’t cross with an excuse.
I stepped closer.
“You aren’t responsible for what Ethan did to my body.”
I glanced toward the conference room.
“Or what he did to Noah.”
Then I met her eyes.
“But don’t rewrite yourself as innocent because you discovered you were disposable.”
She nodded.
Once.
Slowly.
“I won’t.”
And for the first time since meeting her, I respected something about Sabrina Voss.
Not what she had done.
What she didn’t do.
She didn’t argue.
I went upstairs.
Noah was awake.
Aunt Evelyn had dressed him in the tiny navy outfit Grace bought for the wedding.
He made a soft sound when I picked him up.
I pressed my face against his head.
And finally, after nearly thirty hours of refusing to collapse, I cried.
Not elegantly.
Not quietly.
I cried so hard my knees buckled.
Aunt Evelyn sat beside me.
Noah squirmed against my chest.
His hand opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Tiny fingers wrapped around one of mine.
That was when I understood something.
For six weeks, Ethan had told me motherhood was making me weak.
Too emotional.
Too anxious.
Too tired.
Too suspicious.
But every instinct he had taught me to distrust had been right.
The exhaustion was real.
The fear was real.
The fog had been chemically worsened without my knowledge.
But the voice underneath all of it—the one telling me something was wrong—had survived.
He had tried to make me doubt my own mind because my mind was the one thing he couldn’t afford to let me trust.
Someone knocked softly.
Grace entered.
Still wearing her wedding gown.
Her veil was gone.
Her shoes were gone too.
She climbed onto the enormous bed beside me like we were children again.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I looked at her.
“I ruined your wedding.”
She stared at me.
“Excuse me?”
“There were detectives downstairs.”
“Yes.”
“The CEO was fired between dessert and the cake.”
“Correct.”
“Your reception became a corporate crime scene.”
Grace considered this.
“Still better than the chicken.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound startled Noah.
Then Grace wrapped one arm around me.
“I meant what I said.”
“What?”
“I would rather lose one wedding night than lose my sister.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much did you know?”
“Almost nothing until today.”
“And the trust amendment?”
“Dad told me there was something in the trust I might someday need to protect you.”
I pulled back.
“What?”
Grace nodded.
“He made me promise never to mention it unless the attorney contacted me.”
