I let it ring twice before answering.
“Morning, love,” he said, too casually.
“Sorry about last night.
Meetings ran late.”
Behind his voice I heard movement and distant voices.
For a moment I pictured the flower arch, Brooke’s dress, Eleanor lifting her glass.
“Did they?” I asked.
“What?”
“The meetings.”
Silence.
Only for a second.
Then he recovered.
“Yeah.
Brutal day.
I’m heading back soon.”
I looked at the invoice on my screen.
“When you get back, call Gregory.”
His voice sharpened.
“Why would I call your lawyer?”
“Because I’m not discussing this with you without him.”
Another pause.
“Claire, what are you talking about?”
I could have told him I had seen everything.
Instead I said, “Drive safely.”
Then I hung up.
His first text arrived less than a minute later.
What is going on?
Then another.
Claire?
Then four missed calls.
The confidence was already cracking.
By noon, Eleanor had deleted the wedding post.
It was too late.
I had saved the photographs, the caption, the comments, and the time stamps before calling anyone.
Gregory had copies too.
At 12:18, Brooke finally contacted me.
She did not begin with an apology.
She began with an explanation.
“Preston told me you two were basically separated.”
I read the sentence while sitting at the same desk where she had once cried about her mother’s expenses.
My hands remained completely still.
I replied with one question.
“Why was your wedding billed to my company?”
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then nothing.
Ten minutes passed before her response arrived.
“It wasn’t supposed to stay that way.
Preston said he would handle it.”
That was the first admission.
Not that she had married my husband.
Not that she had lied to me for months.
That she knew company resources were being used and believed Preston would somehow clean it up later.
I forwarded the message to Gregory.
He called immediately.
