Buttercream flooded my nose, sickeningly sweet. Champagne-filled laughter spread across the ballroom, confused at first, then awkwardly amused. My cheek pulsed, the hot sting radiating outward.
Then Derek’s mother, Patricia, let out a shriek of hollow delight.
“Oh, look at her! Derek, you ruined her makeup!”
Derek kept one hand firmly on my shoulder, his grip bruising through the delicate silk of my gown.
“Smile, Claire,” he whispered near my ear, his breath hot and reeking of scotch. “Don’t embarrass me.”
I slowly raised my head. The laughter around the room began fading.
White frosting covered my hair, eyelashes, and the hand-beaded bodice of my dress. But it wasn’t the ruined gown that silenced everyone. It was the thick, vivid streak of blood running down my cheek, mixing with the white icing where the wooden dowel had torn my skin.
My maid of honor, Harper, stood near the service doors. Every bit of color had disappeared from her face.
Derek finally noticed the blood. He didn’t look sorry. He looked irritated. He rolled his eyes and removed his hand from my neck.
“Jesus, Claire. It was a joke. Don’t be so dramatic.”
That sentence scared me more than the impact itself. I had heard variations of it for eighteen months. When he punched a hole in the drywall beside my head, he called it “blowing off steam.” When he squeezed my wrists until purple fingerprints appeared, I was “too sensitive.”
But tonight was different. Tonight, everything depended on financial survival.
Three weeks earlier, I had uncovered the truth. Derek wasn’t simply an abusive narcissist; he was a desperate man drowning in debt to a ruthless private equity syndicate. And time was running out.
I had discovered wire transfer authorizations hidden in our wedding planner’s shared drive. Derek had forged my signature to use my company’s assets as collateral for a two-million-dollar credit line to pay his creditors. The bank system was scheduled to process the final, irreversible transfer at exactly 11:59 PM tonight.
