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Prologue
Emma
Saturday, July 8th
“Oh, Emma, darling. You look simply stunning,” my mother gushed as she peered over my shoulder and stared at my reflection in the gilded mirror positioned in the center of my bedroom.
The unprecedented warmth and approval in her voice had me inwardly gaping. I peeled my gaze off the obscenely over-priced, but gorgeous, white tulle and hand-beaded Chantilly lace designer wedding gown hugging my body and blinked.
“The first time I held you in my arms,” she continued. “I dreamed of this day. I knew then you’d make a beautiful bride. And here you are.” A genuine smile—another rare anomaly—tugged her lips as she pretended to wipe a tear from her eye.
Was that when you began arranging my marriage to Wesley—the weasel—Fairchild?The question seared the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it down. I couldn’t afford to bait my mother into an ugly fight. No way would I risk the weeks of planning and preparing I’d done to escape this farce of a wedding.
“I’m glad I’m able to make your dreams come true, Mother,” I replied, forcing a placid smile.
“Don’t screw this up, Emma,” she warned in her usual superior, arctic tone. “Our future hinges on this Bishop-Fairchild union.” She paused and glanced at her watch. “In less than an hour, we’ll all be filthy rich.”
I didn’t bother reminding her the Bishops and Fairchilds were already filthy rich. Instead, I simply nodded and forced another smile. “I know what’s at stake, Mother.”
My sanity. My future. And likely, my life, if Wesley ever discovers I know about his illegal activities.
“Make sure you don’t forget,” she bit out, snatching her Louis Vuitton Pochette off the dresser. “I’m going to give your maid of honor a script to read during the toast at the reception and check in on the other bridesmaids.”
“Who’s the lucky maid of honor?” The question rolled off my tongue before I could stop it.
I didn’t have many friends. The ones I had my mother loathed because they were all co-workers at my father’s company. Like our maids and cooks, they were nothing but hired help in her eyes because they didn’t come from the right families…rich ones.
The twenty girls—total strangers to me—down the hall primping in several guest rooms had been hand-picked by my mother. They were all daughters of her friends from the country club.
Any normal twenty-eight-year-old woman would have told her controlling parents to take a flying fuck over a decade ago. But I’d spent my entire life unknowingly being indoctrinated…blinded and shielded by their rules and expectations. Even when I went away to college, I didn’t realize the depth of their brainwashing. It wasn’t until four weeks ago that my eyes were finally opened, and the veil of subterfuge lifted when I’d accidentally overheard Wesley on the phone. That was the same day I began plotting my way to freedom.
The dress, bridesmaids, caterers, food, and flowers, along with the multitude of guests now gathering in the garden, didn’t matter. The only things that did were getting off the estate, unseen, staying alive, and starting a new life far, far away.
“Her name’s Tina or Gina, something like that. It’s not important,” my mother said, absently waving her hand. “She’s Constance Willingham’s daughter, the model.”
Because Lord knows we can’t have any average-looking bridesmaids…not with the dozens of news crews Father and Ted Fairchild demanded cover the “Wedding of The Century”.
As my mother reached for the doorknob, she paused and peered over her shoulder. “Your father will be here in forty minutes to escort you to the garden for the ceremony. Be ready when he arrives. I will not have our guests waiting due to your tardiness.”
The instant the door closed behind her, I hurried over and turned the lock. Then I kicked off my heels, peeled off the twenty-five thousand dollar designer wedding dress, and tossed it on the bed. Heart hammering, I raced to my closet and slid on the black dress pants and white button-down shirt I’d specifically purchased for this very moment. After tucking the tails of the shirt into my pants, I slid on a pair of black tennis shoes and hurried to the ensuite.
I quickly yanked out the hair pins from my perfectly coiffed wheat-colored curls, then dragged a brush through my hair. Cinching the strands in a hair tie, I retrieved the short, black wig I’d hidden beneath the sink. Wrapping the ponytail in a tight circle, I tugged on the wig and tucked my cell phone in my bra.
Breathless and trembling like a leaf, I hurried to the door and cautiously pulled it open. Though the hallway was blessedly empty, I tucked my chin and hurried toward the stairs. As I bounded off the bottom step, I lifted my head and started toward the kitchen before freezing in my tracks. Beyond the floor to ceiling windows on the living room in front of me, a massive tent—draped in white silk—stood in the garden. Rows and rows of white wooden chairs were lined up in the shade beneath it. Arbors and awnings, draped in a sea of billowing peach silk, dotted the expansive lawn, flanked by massive marble vases bursting with white and peach chrysanthemums, tulips, snapdragons, and roses.
Months ago, when I couldn’t decide what colors I wanted for the wedding—because I didn’t give a shit—Mother announcedshewould take over the planning of myspecial daysince I was too inept. I wanted to hate it, but I couldn’t. It was beautiful…breathtaking, like something out of a fairy tale.
But this stunning, lavish wedding wasn’t for me, for love, or some imaginary happily ever after. It was contrived of pure, old-fashioned greed.
Shaking away the depressing fact I was nothing more than a convenient pawn, I watched as dozens of caterers, dressed in the same black slacks and white button-down shirts as me strolled through the crowd, carrying silver trays teeming with flutes of champagne and finger foods.
Afraid a guest might peer inside the house and recognize me, I lowered my chin again, and strode straight into the kitchen. I’d no more taken two steps into the room when a surly faced man with a big, round belly, and a chef’s hat on his head, shoved a tray of bacon wrapped scallops adorned with white ribbon-tipped toothpicks in my hand.
“Take these out and pass them around before they get cold,” he barked.
Frozen in place, panic pulsed through my veins. The air seized in my lungs.
“What are you waiting for?” he snarled. “Get your ass moving.”
