The diamond earrings caught the light perfectly under the jeweler’s loupe. I adjusted the magnification, studying each facet with the same intensity I’d once applied to construction blueprints. Fifteen thousand dollars was substantial, even for me, but Leona deserved something extraordinary for her wedding day.
“These earrings will be perfect for such a special occasion as a wedding,” the salesperson said, her manicured fingers adjusting the velvet display. Her name tag read Clara, and she moved with the effortless polish of someone who spent her days under Tiffany & Co.’s soft white lights. She’d been patient with my examination, understanding that men of my generation approached purchases like this methodically.
“Yes,” I said. “My daughter’s wedding. I want everything to be perfect.”
The words carried more weight than I intended.
After losing Margaret ten years ago, moments like these reminded me how much I wanted to get right. Leona had been through enough disappointments in her relationships. This time felt different with Carl.
The boutique’s classical music created a cocoon of refinement around us. Outside, the Mall of America thrummed with Midwestern chaos—kids trailing pretzel crumbs, teenagers posing by the indoor roller coaster—but in here, the glass cases and soft carpeting made it feel like money itself had been turned into air. Other customers moved quietly between displays, their voices hushed in reverence for the luxury surrounding them.
I’d built Welch Materials from nothing—just a pickup truck, a rented storage yard on the edge of Minneapolis, and a stubborn refusal to fail. Moments like this, standing in a Tiffany store in Bloomington, Minnesota, buying a wedding gift that cost more than my parents’ first house, validated every difficult decision, every missed dinner, every weekend spent at construction sites instead of home. My phone buzzed against my shirt pocket.
I glanced at it absently, expecting another email about concrete deliveries or permit approvals. The message on the screen made my hands freeze above the jewelry case. Don’t go to the wedding.
Run.
The number was unfamiliar. No name, no contact photo, just a string of digits I didn’t recognize. I read the message again.
Then a third time. My fingers tightened around the phone’s edges. The diamonds blurred in front of me as my focus shifted entirely to the cold blue glow of the screen.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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