MARLOWE HOUSE HOLDINGS.
I recognized the surname.
“Celeste Marlowe?”
“Her company,” Julian said.
“Officially.”
My mother’s best friend.
Owner of Belladonna Bridal.
Julian flipped to another page.
“Unofficially, forty-nine percent of Marlowe House is owned by Bennett Creative Holdings.”
Lila frowned.
“So?”
Julian looked directly at my mother.
“The other fifty-one percent is owned through three shell companies.”
My skin prickled.
“Owned by who?”
Julian didn’t answer immediately.
He didn’t need to.
I looked at my mother.
“No.”
She stared at the ground.
“Mom?”
Nothing.
Julian handed me the beneficial ownership statement.
There it was.
MARGARET ELAINE BENNETT.
My stomach dropped.
My mother wasn’t helping her friend advertise a wedding dress.
She owned the company.
Through hidden entities.
The sponsorship agreement wasn’t a favor.
It was business.
Her business.
“You were using my wedding to advertise your own company.”
She finally looked at me.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“Belladonna was losing money.”
Daniel shifted beside me.
My mother looked almost offended that we failed to grasp the obvious.
“We had expanded too quickly.
Retail leases.
Production.
European distribution.
We needed a campaign that would get attention.”
My voice went quiet.
“So you used me.”
“I gave you a forty-eight-thousand-dollar dress.”
“I didn’t want it.”
“That isn’t the point.”
I laughed.
One sharp sound.
“No.
That’s exactly the point.”
Lila was still staring at the documents.
Then she found something else.
“Wait.”
Her finger stopped halfway down a page.
“What is this loan?”
My mother’s face drained again.
Julian didn’t look surprised.
Lila read aloud.
“Six million dollars.”
A whisper moved through the guests.
She looked at Julian.
“What collateral?”
He answered softly.
“Your trust interests.”
Lila stared.
“Excuse me?”
My mother stepped toward her.
“Lila—”
“You borrowed against our inheritance?”
“It was temporary.”
“Six million dollars?”
“The company needed liquidity.”
Lila looked physically sick.
“And you signed my name?”
My mother said nothing.
That was the answer.
The girl who had spent most of her life standing beside my mother suddenly looked very young.
For years, I had believed Lila was simply like her.
Sharper.
Crueler.
More comfortable judging people.
My mother praised her style.
Her social instincts.
Her willingness to attend dinners and launches and charity events.
Lila was the daughter who understood.
I was the difficult one.
But now I saw something I had never allowed myself to see.
Lila wasn’t standing beside my mother because she was powerful.
She was standing beside her because she had been trained to.
Just like me.
Only differently.
My father had apparently understood that too.
Julian handed Lila a smaller envelope.
“This is yours.”
Her name was written across it in my father’s hand.
Lila’s face crumpled.
“Dad wrote to me?”
“Yes.”
She clutched the envelope but didn’t open it.
Not there.
Not yet.
My mother looked between us.
“You both have everything because of me.”
I turned.
“No.”
“What?”
“You gave us things.”
My voice remained steady.
“Houses.
Schools.
Clothes.
Trips.”
I looked at Lila.
“But every gift came with instructions.”
My mother’s mouth tightened.
“That’s called parenting.”
“No.”
“That’s called making your children believe love can be repossessed.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
Even my mother flinched.
For a second, I almost stopped.
Because I loved her.
That was the terrible part.
I loved her.
I remembered being six years old with pneumonia and waking in the night to find her sleeping beside my hospital bed.
I remembered her teaching me how to tie a scarf.
Calling me every day during my first week of college.
Flying across the country when my father died because she couldn’t bear to be alone.
