I was eagerly waiting to see my son walk down the aisle on his wedding day.
Then our family driver shoved me into the trunk of his car and threw a blanket over me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed.
His voice came out low and urgent, like he was trying not to break. “Hide in here. There’s something you need to see.
Trust me.”
Every instinct in my body screamed to fight, to run, to call my son. But Frederick Palmer had been with our family for fifteen years. He’d driven my husband, Bernard, to his last meeting.
He’d driven me to the hospital the night Bernard died.
Frederick didn’t panic.
And right then, he was terrified.
Against every instinct, I did it.
The trunk lid lowered, and the world went dark.
Through a thin crack near the seal, I could see slivers of morning light, the edge of my navy dress, and Frederick’s hands—steady even as his jaw clenched like he was biting down on a scream.
What I witnessed through that crack left me paralyzed with horror.
That morning, I’d stood in my bedroom staring at the dress I 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 three years, but I still caught myself thinking that way, still wishing he were here, still 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. Always saying 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 and sweet, the kind of late-spring Georgia morning that makes you believe in new beginnings.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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