Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO STOLE MY WEDDING
At 11:43 p.m., nine hours before I was supposed to walk down the aisle, my fiancé's mistress called him for the third time.
This time, I answered.
“Evan's phone,” I said.
There was a sharp intake of breath.
Then a woman's voice.
“Claire?”
I closed my eyes.
Nineteen months.
That was how long I had heard that voice reminding me about meetings, confirming hotel reservations, asking whether I wanted oat milk in my coffee.
“Hello, Brooke.”
Silence.
Behind me, Evan reached for the phone.
I stepped away.
“Please,” he whispered.
I ignored him.
“Did you need something?”
Brooke began crying.
Not quietly.
Not with the stunned, breathless confusion of someone who had unexpectedly found herself in a terrible situation.
She cried as though she had been rehearsing.
“I never wanted you to find out like this.”
I looked at the wedding dress hanging behind Evan.
“How did you want me to find out?”
“Claire, I'm so sorry.”
“That's interesting.”
“What?”
“You were perfectly comfortable helping me choose wedding invitations while sleeping with my fiancé.”
Evan covered his face.
Brooke sniffled.
“It wasn't supposed to happen.”
“Neither was the wedding cancellation.”
“Please don't blame the baby.”
There it was again.
The baby.
The innocent child who had somehow become the universal explanation for two adults behaving like cowards.
“I don't blame the baby, Brooke.”
“Then why are you being so cruel?”
I stared at the phone.
“Cruel?”
“Evan told me how you're reacting.”
I looked at him.
He looked away.
Something cold moved through my chest.
“Did he?”
“He said you took off your ring.”
“Yes.”
“He's devastated.”
I almost laughed.
“I'm sure.”
“Claire, I know this hurts, but Evan deserves a chance to be a father.”
“And what exactly am I preventing?”
Brooke hesitated.
Then she said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
“You have everything. A company. Money. A beautiful apartment. Can't you let me have this one thing?”
I looked around the apartment.
At the flowers arriving tomorrow morning.
At the seating chart spread across the dining table.
At the dress my mother had spent months helping me choose.
Then I understood.
Brooke didn't believe she had stolen anything.
She believed she had finally received something she deserved.
“Evan isn't a handbag, Brooke.”
“I didn't mean—”
“And you don't get to call me greedy because I expected my fiancé to remain faithful.”
She started crying harder.
I ended the call.
Evan stood motionless.
“She's scared,” he said.
I looked at him.
“You should leave.”
“Claire—”
“Now.”
He picked up his phone.
Then he reached toward the ultrasound.
“Take it,” I said.
He hesitated over the engagement ring.
I shook my head.
“Leave that.”
He looked wounded.
That almost made me angry again.
Instead, I walked to the door and opened it.
He stood there for several seconds.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
I met his eyes.
“Then you should have made different choices.”
He left.
The door clicked shut.
For the first time in four years, I was alone in an apartment that had been arranged around a future that no longer existed.
I didn't cry immediately.
I walked into the kitchen.
Poured myself a glass of water.
Drank half.
Then I called my mother.
She answered on the second ring.
“Sweetheart? Everything okay? I was just checking the weather for tomorrow.”
“Mom.”
Something in my voice changed her breathing.
“Claire?”
“The wedding isn't happening.”
A pause.
“What?”
“Evan has been sleeping with Brooke. She's pregnant.”
There was a sound like something falling.
Then my mother said, very quietly, “I'm coming.”
She arrived twenty-six minutes later.
Still wearing her slippers.
Her hair was pulled into a crooked ponytail, and she'd forgotten her coat.
When she saw me, she stopped in the doorway.
“Oh, baby.”
That was when I broke.
I didn't scream.
I didn't collapse dramatically.
I simply stepped into my mother's arms and began crying so hard I couldn't breathe.
She held me.
For a long time.
Then she pulled back and looked toward the dress.
Her face changed.
My mother, Margaret Whitmore, was a gentle woman until someone hurt one of her children.
Then she became someone else.
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Good.”
She took out her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling your father.”
“Mom, it's midnight.”
“He can be angry at midnight.”
Within an hour, my parents, my younger brother Daniel, and my best friend Natalie were in my apartment.
Nobody suggested reconciliation.
Nobody asked what I had done wrong.
Nobody told me to consider Evan's feelings.
My father, a retired accountant who rarely raised his voice, sat beside me and said, “You don't have to make a single decision tonight.”
But I did.
Because three hundred guests were arriving tomorrow.
Because the florist had already loaded the arrangements.
Because the caterer had purchased enough food to feed a small army.
Because the wedding venue had a cancellation policy that could bankrupt a less fortunate couple.
And because Whitmore House had a major investor presentation on Monday.
I couldn't disappear.
Not completely.
At 2:17 a.m., Natalie opened her laptop.
“We need to notify the guests.”
I nodded.
She drafted a simple message.
Due to unforeseen personal circumstances, the wedding of Claire Whitmore and Evan Mercer will not take place. We apologize for the inconvenience and appreciate your understanding.
I read it.
Then I shook my head.
“No.”
Natalie looked up.
“What?”
“It's too vague.”
“You don't owe anyone details.”
“I know.”
I stared at the screen.
“But I'm not going to let people think I got cold feet.”
So I dictated a second version.
The wedding has been canceled following Evan Mercer's disclosure of an ongoing relationship with another woman. I appreciate your kindness and ask for privacy as I move forward.
My mother watched me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Natalie pressed send.
By 2:31 a.m., my phone began vibrating.
By 2:45, Evan's mother had called six times.
By 3:02, Brooke had sent me a message.
I hope someday you'll understand that love isn't always simple.
I blocked her.
At 3:18, I received a different message.
It came from an unfamiliar number.
Claire, I'm sorry to contact you tonight. My name is Julian Cross. I'm an attorney representing one of your company's prospective investors. There's something you need to know about Brooke Halley before Monday.
I stared at it.
Then another message appeared.
Please do not allow her access to your office or company systems tomorrow.
I sat up.
Natalie noticed.
“What is it?”
I showed her the screen.
Her expression changed.
“Who is Julian Cross?”
“I don't know.”
A third message arrived.
This isn't only about your fiancé.
I read those seven words twice.
Then I called the number.
A man answered immediately.
“Ms. Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
His voice was low and controlled.
“I'm sorry about your wedding.”
“What do you want?”
“To prevent something worse.”
I stood.
“Explain.”
There was a pause.
Then he said, “Your assistant has been communicating with someone who is trying to acquire your company.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Who?”
“I'd rather tell you in person.”
“Then you can tell me Monday.”
“Monday may be too late.”
I looked toward my mother.
Toward Natalie.
Toward the wedding dress.
“What happens Monday?”
Julian exhaled.
“Someone intends to present evidence that Whitmore House has been stealing designs.”
My blood went cold.
“That's impossible.”
“I believe you.”
“Then who is making the accusation?”
He hesitated.
“Claire, the documents I've seen carry your electronic signature.”
I couldn't speak.
“And according to the access logs,” he continued, “they were uploaded from your office.”
My eyes moved toward the small framed photograph on my desk.
It showed Brooke and me at last year's company holiday party.
She had her arm around my shoulders.
We were both smiling.
Julian's next words barely sounded human.
“The upload occurred while you were in Boston.”
Boston.
Evan's birthday.
The cake.
The bourbon.
The beginning of the affair.
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Who uploaded them?”
Julian answered quietly.
May you like
“Someone using Brooke Halley's credentials.”
And suddenly, my canceled wedding was no longer the worst thing that had happened to me that night.
