“Do you think she’s coming?”
“After his accident, I wouldn’t marry—”
Andrew gripped his armrests. He had learned to live with pity disguised as politeness. But today—today—he expected dignity.
His mother, Margaret Cole, approached in an elegant navy dress, eyes red from days of claimed “allergies.”
“Honey… are you sure about this?”
“Mom… not now.”
“She’s been distant,” Margaret whispered. “The excuses. The way she looks at you when—”
“Enough.”
Andrew hated the way heads turned. He hated being watched like something fragile.
“Victoria loves me,” he said, forcing the words into armor. “She stayed when everyone else ran.”
Margaret didn’t argue. She squeezed his shoulder and stepped back, tears finally visible.
Then Andrew saw Emily again.
She stood at the edge of the garden, hesitating—then started walking. Straight through the guests. Straight into raised phones and cameras.
When she reached the aisle, she stopped in front of him and leaned in so only he could hear.
“Mr. Cole… have you signed the marriage papers yet?”
Andrew blinked.
“What?”
“The civil documents,” she clarified quietly. “The prenup. The power-of-attorney forms Mark brought last week. Did you sign all of them?”
Mark stiffened.
“Emily, this isn’t the time.”
She didn’t look at him.
“Did you sign them?”
Andrew remembered the folder. Mark talking fast. Standard procedure. The notary needs it. He had signed some pages. Not all.
“Why?” Andrew asked.
Emily leaned closer.
“Because this wedding wasn’t about love,” she said. “It was about access.”
Mark snapped, louder. “Back off. You’re overstepping.”
Emily finally turned her head—just enough to pin him with a look that made him step back—then faced Andrew again.
“I’ve worked in your home for six years,” she said. “I know who comes and goes. I know who moves like staff are furniture.”
She lowered her voice.
“Last night, Victoria was in your study.”
Andrew’s eyes widened.
Mark jumped in too fast. “She was at a spa.”
“She was in your study,” Emily said calmly. “With Mark. Arguing. About timing.”
The garden tilted.
“What timing?” Andrew asked.
“Your signature,” Emily said. “Your trust fund. The assets you secured after the accident. She wanted everything locked in before the ceremony.”
Mark stepped forward, voice cracking. “She’s lying.”
Emily reached into her pocket and handed Andrew a folded document—stamped, notarized, not signed by him.