“It certainly makes a statement.”
My mother studied me suspiciously.
“It photographs beautifully.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“You’ll wear it?”
I looked directly at her.
“Of course.”
For the first time that morning, my mother relaxed.
She stepped forward and kissed my cheek.
“I knew you would understand.”
I smiled until she walked out.
Then I locked the door.
Lila remained behind.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Finally, she whispered, “Why are you smiling?”
I walked to my handbag.
Pulled out my phone.
And showed her the message I had received at 5:17 that morning.
Her face drained of color.
The message had come from Celeste Bellamy, the seventy-two-year-old owner of Bellamy & Rowe.
Your mother attempted to collect your gown yesterday.
We followed your instructions.
Everything is ready.
Call me when you are alone.
Lila stared at the screen.
“You knew?”
“I knew she might try something.”
“How?”
“Because she tried to cancel the flowers two weeks ago.”
Lila swallowed.
“I didn’t know about that.”
“She also contacted Daniel’s tailor.”
“What?”
“She wanted his tuxedo changed because she thought the one he chose looked ‘too ordinary.’”
Lila looked toward the door.
“I swear I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
That surprised her.
Her eyes filled immediately.
“Bella—”
“But you knew about the dress.”
She looked down.
“Yes.”
“And you helped her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her voice broke.
“Because she said if I didn’t, she would tell the board about the Miami account.”
My anger disappeared.
“What Miami account?”
Lila stared at me.
And suddenly, the missing dress became the least important thing in the room.
Our father, Charles Whitmore, had died seven years earlier.
Officially, a heart attack.
He had collapsed in his study late one Sunday evening while reviewing plans for one of the company’s hotels.
By the time the ambulance arrived, he was gone.
I had been twenty-four.
Lila was twenty.
Our mother became chairwoman and acting CEO of Whitmore Hospitality before the funeral flowers had wilted.
No one questioned it.
Why would they?
Evelyn and Charles Whitmore had been Charleston royalty.
They appeared in magazines.
Hosted fundraisers.
Donated to hospitals.
Restored historic properties.
Our Christmas photographs looked like advertisements for generational wealth.
What nobody saw was how carefully my mother controlled every person inside those photographs.
My father had controlled the company.
My mother controlled everything else.
After he died, she controlled both.
Or so I had believed.
Lila sat on the edge of the bridal sofa.
“The Miami account belonged to Dad.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Neither had I.”
She twisted her hands together.
“Last year, Mom asked me to sign paperwork for a hospitality subsidiary.
She said it was routine.
There were dozens of pages.
I signed.”
“What company?”
“Lowland Development Partners.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“She told me it was part of a renovation project.”
Lila began to cry.
“Three months ago, an accountant called me because my signature appeared on a transfer authorization for eight million dollars.”
My stomach tightened.
“Eight million?”
“I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.
Mom found out he called me.
