That was why I had planned the wedding gift. Not just because I could afford it, but because I wanted to build a bridge, to keep my son close, to show Sabrina I was not her enemy.
Sitting in the church, I knew how foolish that had been.
A soft movement drew my attention.
I stood, needing air, and slipped toward a side corridor, my heels clicking quietly against stone. The hallway was cooler, emptier, lit by small sconces that cast warm pools of light on the walls.
And then I heard Michael’s voice.
Low.
Urgent.
I stopped so abruptly my breath caught.
He was around the corner, partly hidden by a stone column, phone pressed to his ear. He didn’t see me.
“Tessa, no,” he said, voice tight. “Not here. Not today.”
My stomach dropped.
Tessa Park.
I had met her once or twice, the bright-eyed secretary at his office who carried files with efficient hands and smiled too quickly. I had assumed she was simply ambitious.
Michael’s tone softened into something intimate. “Just wait until after the ceremony. I told you.”
He paced a half-step, adjusting his cuff like a man trying to keep control. His jaw was clenched. “After I get that money from my mother, everything changes. We won’t have to hide anymore.”
My fingers tightened around my purse strap, hard enough that the leather creaked.
He continued, voice eager now, almost boyish with the thrill of conspiracy. “It’s all set. She’s going to sign. She always caves, Tess. She always wants to please me.”
He laughed quietly, and it was a sound I didn’t recognize in my son. It was cruel without meaning to be, careless in a way that hurt more than deliberate malice.
“As soon as she signs this afternoon,” he said, “we’re free. No strings.”
My chest ached as if something inside it had been punched.
I had raised him. Fed him. Worked until my joints screamed. And there he was, on his wedding day, plotting to take my money and leave his bride for his mistress.
Behind my ribs, the recorder in my purse felt suddenly hot, like it knew it had work to do.
I eased it on without looking, thumb finding the switch by feel.
The red light glowed faintly through the purse opening.
Michael’s voice went on, softer. “I have to go. Just trust me. After the honeymoon, I’ll take care of everything.”
The call ended.
He turned back toward the sanctuary, straightening his jacket, sliding his mask back into place. The groom smile returned as if nothing had happened.
I stepped into shadow, heart pounding, and let him pass without a word.
When I returned to my pew, my hands were steady but cold. I held my purse in my lap like it contained a living thing.
The choir’s voices rose again, filling the church with sweetness that felt almost mocking.
I stared at the altar and thought:
So this is who you are now.
The ceremony hadn’t even begun, and already I had heard enough to understand that the wedding was not a joining of love.
It was a transaction.
And they assumed I was the bank.
I sat through the last minutes of guests settling, through the soft rustle of coats and programs, through murmured greetings. My smile stayed in place because my body knew how to perform. Inside, my thoughts moved fast and clear.
Michael wasn’t the only one with plans.
I needed to know Sabrina’s.
When the sanctuary grew busier, I stood again and slipped down the corridor toward the bridal prep room. The door was slightly ajar. Pop music pulsed from inside, bright and bouncy, a soundtrack for joy that made my stomach turn.
I paused by the crack, only intending to confirm a feeling.
Sabrina’s voice hit my ears with sharp certainty.
“In a few hours,” she said, laughing, “I’ll have the fortune in my hands. Twenty-two million. And by law, I get half. Michael’s so naive.”
Laughter erupted.
My blood went cold.
Someone inside said something I couldn’t quite catch, and Sabrina answered, breezy and cruel. “I’m filing for divorce. I already talked to an attorney. I’m not staying with him forever. This is just… a step.”
Another voice, giggling: “And his mother? She acts like she owns everything.”
Sabrina’s tone shifted, colder, edged with disdain. “Once the money’s in, I’ll push Michael to put her in a high-end nursing home. Park her there. Let staff deal with her. She’ll be out of the way, and the company will finally feel clean.”
The laughter that followed was high and sharp, like glass clinking too hard.
My fingers dug into the edge of the doorframe. For one moment, I thought I might burst in and slap her, the way my own mother might have done, the way a woman without decades of discipline might have done.
But I didn’t.
I eased my purse forward slightly, letting the recorder capture every word, every laugh.
Then I stepped away, silently, letting the hall swallow me again.
When I returned to the sanctuary, everything looked the same. Flowers. Candles. Guests.
And yet nothing was the same.
I sat down, folded my hands, and breathed through the roar in my ears. A part of me felt as if I were floating above myself, watching a woman smile politely while inside her a steel door had slammed shut.
Now I knew.
Michael wanted the money to escape with another woman.
Sabrina wanted the money to escape from him, and to erase me along the way.
And both of them, in their own ways, had made their contempt clear.
The church bells began to peal.
The doors opened.
Sabrina entered on her father’s arm, lace and satin and perfect makeup, her smile radiant enough to make strangers sigh. Cameras flashed. Guests murmured.
Michael stood at the altar, handsome in his tuxedo, hands clasped, eyes shining with practiced emotion.
I watched them and felt a strange detachment, like the scene had become a play I had already read the ending to.
The priest spoke. The choir sang. Vows were exchanged with trembling voices that sounded sincere to everyone except me.
“I promise to love you,” Michael said.
“I promise forever,” Sabrina replied.
Their words floated up into the vaulted ceiling and settled among the stained glass like smoke.
My applause at the end was measured and calm, my smile soft.
No one around me knew my purse held proof.
No one around me knew my scalp burned beneath my wig like a secret.
No one around me knew that the real ceremony had happened earlier, in my bedroom, when I touched my bare head and decided I would no longer be anyone’s fool.
The reception ballroom was bright with chandeliers and white flowers, the kind of luxury wedding setting that makes guests lift their phones before they even sit down. Crystal glittered. Champagne flutes chimed. Waiters moved like shadows with trays of appetizers that smelled of butter and truffle.
I took my seat at the head table, posture perfect, hands relaxed. Michael and Sabrina sat beside each other, playing their roles beautifully. He leaned toward her, smiling. She laughed lightly, touching his arm, a gesture meant for cameras.
I watched them like a woman watching a market shift.
Not emotional.
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