Iris looked down at the signature page.
Adrian’s name appeared beneath hers.
He had signed confidently.
He believed the document protected him against losing access to his future equity arrangements.
He had not read it with the same attention he gave acquisition contracts.
That detail troubled Iris more than it pleased her.
A man who prided himself on understanding agreements had treated their marriage as a transaction he could not possibly lose.
She closed the file.
“Thank you.”
Caroline watched her.
“May I offer advice that has nothing to do with the contract?”
Iris looked up.
“Of course.”
“Don’t let the desire to punish him become the last decision you make as a couple.”
Iris considered.
Then nodded.
She would remember the warning.
She would not follow it immediately.
Two weeks before the ceremony, Adrian bought Celia a diamond bracelet.
It was not particularly unusual.
He had been giving her expensive gifts for months.
What made this one different was the accompanying note.
For all the Wednesdays that belong to us.
Celia read it in her apartment.
She smiled.
Then felt a sudden, uncomfortable sadness.
The bracelet was beautiful.
The words were intimate.
But Wednesday afternoons had become the architecture of a life she was increasingly ashamed to admit she occupied.
She was twenty-nine.
She had a career.
Friends.
A family who believed she worked hard for a demanding executive.
Yet her relationship existed mainly in hotel rooms between meetings.
She had begun comparing herself with Iris in ways she hated.
Iris attended charity dinners on Adrian’s arm.
Celia booked the cars.
Iris appeared in photographs beside him.
Celia arranged the photographers.
Iris chose wedding flowers.
Celia confirmed the delivery schedule.
At first, she imagined the arrangement as temporary.
Now the wedding was approaching.
And Adrian still expected her to attend.
He had placed her at a VIP table reserved for important partners and close friends.
Not because Iris wanted her there.
Because Adrian insisted Celia had become indispensable to the business.
When she questioned him, he smiled.
“It’s where you belong.”
She looked at the seating chart.
The table was close to the stage.
From there, she would have an unobstructed view of him marrying another woman.
She stared at the arrangement.
For the first time, she wondered whether he enjoyed the cruelty of it.
The wedding dress arrived at Halewick House four days before the ceremony.
It was ivory silk, structured through the bodice with a soft, flowing skirt and a neckline simple enough to make elaborate jewellery unnecessary.
Iris had chosen it with her mother in mind.
Her mother disliked wedding gowns that made the bride appear to be wearing the room’s curtains.
The dress was elegant without excess.
Naomi attended the final fitting.
She stood near the mirror while the seamstress adjusted the hem.
Iris looked at herself.
For a moment, she felt strangely disconnected from the reflection.
The woman in the mirror was beautiful.
Composed.
Ready to marry.
Nothing about her appearance suggested what she knew.
Naomi watched.
“Are you certain you want to go through with Saturday?”
Iris looked at her.
“No.”
Her friend’s expression softened.
It was the first uncertain answer Iris had given in weeks.
The seamstress stepped away to retrieve a pin.
Naomi moved closer.
“You don’t have to do any of this.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Iris looked at the dress.
She thought about the eight months of lies.
The Wednesday hotel rooms.
The false expense claims.
The ownership proposal.
The effortless confidence with which Adrian had continued planning a wedding while maintaining a second relationship.
Then she thought about her mother.
A woman who had never needed to humiliate someone to prove she could stand up to them.
For a moment, Iris felt ashamed of the pleasure she imagined taking in Adrian’s public downfall.
She looked at Naomi.
“Because if I walk away quietly, he will call it a private misunderstanding.”
Naomi said nothing.
“And the people who’ve invested in him will keep believing the story he’s sold them.”
“Then tell the board. Tell the investors through proper channels.”
“I have.”
Naomi nodded.
“Then perhaps that’s enough.”
Iris turned back toward the mirror.
The dress caught the light.
She stared at her reflection.
“I don’t think it is.”
The morning of the wedding was bright and clear.
Halewick House stood beneath a pale September sky, its long windows reflecting the gardens and the temporary white pavilion erected beside the lake.
Florists moved through the corridors carrying arrangements of roses and eucalyptus.
Technicians checked microphones.
Caterers prepared hundreds of glasses.
A string quartet rehearsed in the drawing room.
The day had been planned with extraordinary precision.
Adrian arrived shortly after noon.
He wore a tailored black dinner jacket and a white shirt.
His hair was neatly styled.
He looked handsome, confident, and slightly nervous in the way people expected grooms to look.
Celia arrived an hour later.
She wore a deep emerald dress, her chestnut hair arranged in soft waves, and the diamond bracelet Adrian had given her two weeks earlier.
She stood in the entrance hall studying the seating plan.
Her name appeared at the VIP table.
Beside senior investors.
Banking partners.
Two directors from Whitmore Meridian’s German operations.
She felt a flicker of pride.
Then remembered why she was there.
A member of the wedding staff approached.
“Miss Hart? We’ve arranged your place near the stage.”
Celia smiled.
“Thank you.”
She walked toward the ballroom.
Iris spent the afternoon in a private suite overlooking the gardens.
Her hair had been drawn back into an elegant low bun.
Her makeup was understated.
A pair of diamond earrings belonging to her mother rested against her neck.
Naomi stood near the window.
Richard arrived at half past three.
He knocked before entering.
Iris turned.
For a moment, her father simply looked at her.
His expression changed.
“You look like your mother.”
Iris smiled.
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“She would have liked the dress.”
“I know.”
He approached.
Then stopped.
“Are you sure?”
Iris looked at him.
Richard had asked the question several times during the previous weeks.
He had offered to cancel the wedding.
To issue a carefully worded statement.
To arrange private meetings with the relevant directors and investors.
He had reminded Iris that she owed no one a performance of strength.
Each time, she had thanked him.
Each time, she had refused.
Now he looked at her with an expression she had rarely seen.
Fear.
Not for the company.
For his daughter.
