Chapter 1 - THE SLAP BEFORE THE WEDDING
Clara Whitmore’s hand was already moving when Trent turned toward the bridal-suite door.
Her palm struck his cheek hard enough to knock him sideways into the upholstered edge of the bed.
“Three days before our wedding—and I find you here with my sister?”
Trent caught himself against the mattress.
Brittany jerked upright behind him, pulling her champagne satin robe tightly across the slip dress she still wore underneath.
For one ugly second, nobody denied anything.
That was what Clara remembered later.
No misunderstanding.
No surprised laughter.
No ridiculous explanation about a torn zipper or spilled champagne.
Trent’s shirt was wrinkled and partly open at the collar. Brittany’s shoes lay beneath the armchair. The bedding behind them had been pulled loose.
Clara stood in the bridal suite of the Lenox House Hotel on Manhattan’s Upper East Side wearing the ivory lace gown she had just finished fitting downstairs.
Her veil was still pinned into her brunette updo.
Three days from now, four hundred and twelve guests were supposed to watch her marry the man leaning against the bed.
Clara’s father appeared in the doorway.
Charles Whitmore’s face changed from confusion to horror.
Elaine followed him.
“Oh my God.”
Brittany finally spoke.
“Clara, I can explain.”
“Don’t.”
Trent stepped toward her.
“It’s not—”
“Don’t.”
Clara raised one hand.
He stopped.
Charles moved first.
Not toward Trent.
Toward Clara.
He caught her wrist when she pointed at her fiancé.
“Stop humiliating us,” he said under his breath. “You’ll smile downstairs and finish this wedding.”
Clara stared at him.
The affair hurt.
Her father’s sentence stunned her.
“What?”
“Not here.”
Charles glanced toward the open doorway.
Two hotel employees stood at the far end of the hall pretending not to watch.
“There are donors downstairs, board members, investors. Your grandmother flew in from Palm Beach this morning. Whatever happened, we handle it privately.”
Clara pulled against his grip.
“Take your hand off me.”
“Clara.”
She knocked his hand away.
Trent moved closer.
“Baby, listen—”
“Don’t call me that.”
Clara stepped to the bedside table and picked up her phone.
Ten minutes earlier, before either Trent or Brittany realized she was standing in the doorway, Clara had taken one photograph.
Both of them.
Together.
Fully clothed.
Still unmistakable.
She held the screen toward Trent.
His expression changed.
He lunged.
Clara jerked the phone away.
“Too late. I already saved exactly what I needed.”
“Give me the phone.”
Trent caught her forearm.
Clara tore free.
“Touch me again and the wedding is the least of your problems.”
Brittany’s voice shook.
“Clara, please.”
Clara ignored her.
She had not come to the suite looking for proof of an affair.
She had come looking for Trent.
Because an hour earlier, while reviewing the final wedding invoices from her office downstairs, she had noticed something strange.
A financial authorization attached to one of Trent’s reimbursement requests.
She had opened it only because the account symbol looked familiar.
Now she switched screens.
Trent’s profile photograph appeared beside a series of account graphics.
No amounts were visible from across the room.
Charles saw the symbol anyway.
The effect was immediate.
His face lost color.
Trent saw him looking.
“Charles.”
Clara’s anger sharpened.
“Interesting.”
Trent lunged toward the phone again.
This time Charles caught his wrist.
Hard.
“Don’t.”
Trent stared at him.
Brittany stopped breathing.
Clara looked from her father to her fiancé.
“And the affair isn’t the secret you should fear.”
Charles slowly released Trent.
“Where did you get that?”
Clara looked at the emblem on the screen.
A simple black-and-gold crest she had seen her entire life.
Bennett Family Trust.
The trust her maternal grandfather had created for Clara and Brittany before he died.
The trust Charles had repeatedly told both daughters was untouched.
May you like
Clara looked at her father.
“Why do you look more scared of this than you do of him sleeping with Brittany?”
