“I should have stopped this months ago,” he said.

I didn’t reassure him.

He was right.

My father made three copies of the video. One went to the restaurant’s attorney, another to secure storage, and Marcus retained the original.

My mother decided not to call the police that evening, but she photographed the redness around her eyes and her ruined blouse.

Then another problem surfaced.

Our wedding reception was scheduled six weeks later at Bellamy Events, my father’s private venue.

Linda had been telling people the Whitmores were paying for it.

They weren’t.

My father was.

And apparently, Linda had promised friends premium wine upgrades, special seating, and private transportation she had never paid for.

The next morning, Daniel woke to twenty-three messages from her.

I received none.

Around noon, Charles called.

“Emily,” he said, “there’s something else you need to know about Linda and the wedding.”

I looked at Daniel across our kitchen table.

“What?”

Charles hesitated.

“She’s been telling people your father is her business partner.”

That changed everything.

The wine incident wasn’t only about contempt.

Linda had been using my family’s name.

And now we had documented proof of who she really was.

—

Charles came to our apartment that afternoon carrying a leather folder and looking exhausted.

Daniel let him inside without hugging him.

Charles sat at our kitchen table and placed the folder between us.

“I should have dealt with this sooner,” he said.