“No, Mr. Whitmore.”
Then his eyes shifted toward me.
“Your father did.”
The cathedral doors suddenly opened behind us.
Several people entered at once.
Board members.
Legal representatives.
And two private security officers.
Not for me.
For Grant.
His face finally cracked completely.
“Charlotte…” he whispered, stepping toward me again. “Please. Don’t do this.”
Don’t do this.
The irony nearly suffocated me.
For fifteen years I had protected that man.
Defended him.
Loved him.
Built a life beside him.
And he repaid me by handing pieces of my life away to another woman one gift at a time until eventually he handed her my dignity too.
I looked at Rebecca again.
The dress suddenly didn’t look beautiful anymore.
It looked desperate.
Cheap.
Like a costume stolen from someone stronger.
“You should leave,” I told her quietly.
Rebecca swallowed hard.
“But before you do…”
I stepped closer.
Close enough for only her to hear the next words.
“My father bought that dress in Milan the week after I survived my miscarriage.”
Her face changed instantly.
“He stayed awake beside my hospital bed for three nights because he was afraid I wouldn’t stop crying.”
I looked down at the blue silk wrapped around her body.
