On my son’s wedding morning, our family driver pushed me into the trunk and threw a blanket over me. “What the hell are you doing?” I yelled. “Ma’am, please hide in here.
Don’t say a word. You need to see this. Please trust me,” he said.
Minutes later, what I saw through the crack left me completely frozen. I was eagerly waiting to see my son walk down the aisle on his wedding day. Suddenly, our family driver pushed me into the trunk of his car, covering me with a blanket.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed. He whispered urgently. “Hide in here.
There’s something you need to see. Trust me.”
Against every instinct, I did. What I witnessed through that crack in the trunk left me paralyzed with horror.
The morning of my son’s wedding, I stood in my bedroom staring at a dress I’d picked out three months ago. Navy blue, elegant—the kind of thing a mother wears when she’s proud. I should have been excited, crying happy tears, calling friends to say, “Can you believe my Blake is getting married?”
But I wasn’t.
Instead, I stood with my hand pressed against my chest, feeling my heartbeat thud too fast, too loud. Something felt wrong. I couldn’t name it, but it sat in my stomach like a stone—heavy, cold, unwelcome.
Bernard would have known what to do. My husband had been gone for three years, but I still caught myself thinking that way, wishing he were here, wishing I could turn to him and say, “Do you feel it, too?”
But Bernard wasn’t here. And Blake, my sweet, trusting Blake, was downstairs getting ready to marry Natasha Quinn.
Beautiful, polished, said all the right things. And yet. I shook my head, pushed the thought away, and reached for my earrings.
Stop it, Margot. You’re being paranoid. I was fastening the second earring when I heard gravel crunch outside.
Frederick’s car. Early. 7:30.
We weren’t supposed to leave for another twenty minutes. I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs. When I stepped outside, the morning air hit me warm, sweet—the kind of spring day that made you believe in new beginnings.
But Frederick’s face told a different story. He stood beside the black sedan, jaw clenched tight. Frederick Palmer had worked for our family for fifteen years.
He’d driven Bernard to his last meeting. He’d driven me to the hospital the night Bernard died. Frederick didn’t panic.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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