“But you’re looking.”

“We’re looking.”

I opened my eyes.

Across my bedroom, my wedding gown hung beneath a protective cover.

Forty-eight hours until I became Mrs.

Carter Vale.

I should have canceled.

Instead, I said:

“Move forward.”

The wedding morning arrived bright and brutally beautiful.

My mother cried when she saw me dressed.

“You look like your father’s girl,” she whispered.

That nearly destroyed me.

I hugged her.

“I am.”

Carter sent champagne.

A note came with it.

To forever.

I stared at the words.

Then handed the bottle to Rebecca.

“Pour it down the sink.”

She knew everything by then.

Her expression darkened.

“I still think murder should remain on the table.”

I laughed for the first time in days.

At four-thirty, the ceremony began.

Carter waited beneath thousands of white orchids.

Handsome.

Confident.

The man I once imagined growing old beside.

When I reached him, his eyes filled with tears.

That almost impressed me.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are your lies.”

His smile flickered.

“What?”

The music swelled.

I smiled sweetly.

“Nothing.”

Our officiant began.

Guests cried.

We exchanged rings.

And when Carter said, “I do,” I watched his face carefully.

He believed he had won.

What he didn’t know was that the officiant standing before us was not the officiant we had originally hired.

That man had developed a sudden, generously compensated “scheduling conflict.”

The woman replacing him was legally authorized to solemnize marriages.

But she had been given very specific instructions.

Do not file the license until I personally approved it after the reception.

Carter thought marrying me unlocked the trust.

In reality, he had not legally gained anything yet.

But he believed he had.

And that was all I needed.

At 8:17 p.m., while we ate dinner, Westbridge’s general counsel sent instructions to a bank requesting activation of the fraudulent trust guarantee.

The attempt was logged.

Recorded.

Preserved.

At 8:31 p.m., Carter received confirmation that the request had been submitted.

He smiled across the table at me.

“To forever,” he said.

I raised my champagne.

“To consequences.”

He laughed.

He thought I was joking.

At 9:06 p.m., Carter took the microphone.

“This dance is for the woman I’ve loved for ten years.”

Then he walked toward Chloe.

Exactly as planned.

Not my plan.

His.

He wanted to provoke me.

He wanted cameras.

He wanted me broken.

Chloe had told me everything two nights earlier.

She had shown me the message.

Tonight. After dinner. I’m done pretending. Let her lose it.

So Chloe walked onto that dance floor knowing exactly what she was doing.

She looked at me once over Carter’s shoulder.

Nobody else noticed.

I did.

Her lips moved.

One word.

Now.

I walked toward the stage.

Rebecca whispered, “Give them hell.”

The music stopped.

I took the microphone.

Carter frowned.

“Sweetheart, not now.”

“Actually, Carter.”

I looked around the ballroom.

“Now is perfect.”

Behind us, the giant screens went black.

Then a document appeared.

WESTBRIDGE CAPITAL — SUPPLEMENTAL GUARANTEE.

Guests leaned forward.

Carter’s expression disappeared.

I continued.

“Most of you know I’m an attorney.

Fewer of you know that my practice includes trust litigation and financial fraud.”

“Evelyn,” Carter said.

I ignored him.

“This document lists my family trust as collateral for seventy-four million dollars in Westbridge debt.”