This was ridiculous, I told myself. Paranoid nonsense. But my heart wouldn’t slow down.
I waited a few seconds. Then I stood, pretending to head toward the restroom, and followed at a distance. The hallway was dimmer, quieter, leading to a small courtyard behind the venue.
I stayed near the corner, hidden behind a decorative column, just enough to see without being seen.
My husband stepped outside.
He didn’t light a cigarette.
Instead, he took out his phone.
And then someone else stepped out to meet him.
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It was my sister.
The bride.
Still in her wedding dress.
I felt my breath catch in my throat.
She looked around quickly, then moved closer to my husband. Too close. Her hands trembled as she passed him something small—a folded envelope. He opened it immediately, scanning the contents with a frown.
“What is this?” he asked sharply.
“It’s everything,” she whispered. “Accounts. Transfers. The offshore numbers.”
My head began to spin.
“You said you handled it,” he snapped.
“I tried,” she said, her voice cracking. “But Dad’s lawyer is asking questions. If this comes out—”
My husband grabbed her wrist. Hard.
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