Chapter 2 - The Groom's Interrogation"We have guests arriving in forty minutes," Sloane whispered frantically, grabbing my wrist with a manicured hand that dug in like a claw. "The minister is already in the garden. The catering trucks are pulling up. Do you know what a scandal this will be? If you make a scene over a logistical mix-up, your firm, your reputation—it'll be destroyed."
My reputation. That was always her favorite leash.
I pulled my arm away as if she were toxic. "The wedding is off."
The silence in the foyer was absolute. Even Maisie stopped crying, looking up at me with wide, terrified eyes.
Sloane let out a sharp, breathless laugh. "Off? You can't cancel a wedding like this, Graham. My father flew in from Zurich. Half the city's elite are parking their cars outside right now. You think you can just walk out because a five-year-old threw a tantrum and a moving company packed the wrong boxes?"
"Those aren't moving boxes, Sloane. Those are escape pods." I stepped past her, picking up the private center's folder. I flipped to the billing page.
Payment Method: Wire Transfer from Account ending in 4092.
My personal account. The account that required a two-step biometric authorization on my phone.
I pulled my smartphone out of my tux pocket. My thumbprint ID unlocked it instantly. I opened the banking app and tapped into transaction history. There it was: a wire transfer of forty-five thousand dollars executed three days ago, categorized under “Specialized Educational Consulting.”
I had been in New York for a merger negotiation three days ago. My phone had been charging on the nightstand of our hotel room.
I looked up at Sloane, who was now standing, her white gown shimmering under the foyer chandelier like a shroud.
"You had my phone," I whispered, the horror dawning on me with crushing weight. "While I was asleep in New York. You used my thumbprint while I was passed out from exhaustion."
Sloane’s mask slipped entirely. The trembling bride vanished, replaced by a cold, glittering stranger. "You were working yourself to death, Graham. You couldn't see what was right in front of you. That child was an anchor dragging you down. I was building a future for us. Just the two of us. Without Elena's ghost haunting every hallway."
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors swung open behind her.
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My best man, Marcus, stepped inside holding a tray of champagne flutes, freezing dead in his tracks as he took in the scene: the weeping child in a metal chain, the suitcases, and the bride in a bloodless silence.
"Graham, mate," Marcus stuttered, "the guests are asking where you are. Is everything... ready?"
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