My father closed his eyes.
For a second, I wished I had not said it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because there are some things a father should never have to hear about his daughter’s wedding night.
Rebecca’s gaze flickered toward the laundry bag. “And the dress?”
“It’s in there.”
“Good. Keep everything. The clothes, the room key, messages, emails, bank transfers, any documents tied to the apartment. Nothing gets deleted. Nothing gets answered tonight unless we decide together.”
I looked at her.
“That sounds like legal advice.”
“It is.”
My father released me only enough to study my face. “You’re safe here.”
I nodded again, but the word safe felt strange. I had been safe that morning too, hadn’t I? Surrounded by flowers and candles, music and relatives, a husband waiting at the altar with tears in his eyes.
Safety, I was beginning to learn, could be staged.
Inside, the house smelled like cedar, old books, and the lemon polish our housekeeper had used since I was a child. The foyer chandelier scattered light across the marble floor, and for one breath, I saw my mother standing at the base of the stairs, smiling because I had finally come home.
Then the image vanished.
Rebecca led us into the library, the room my father used when conversations were too serious for the kitchen. She set a leather notebook on the coffee table and motioned for me to sit.
“Before we listen,” she said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay.”
“Did Elias know about your family trust?”
“No.”
“Did he know your father owns Wilson Development?”
“He knew my father worked in construction. That’s what I told him.”
