Half the flowers from my bouquet lay scattered across the vanity where Margaret had untied the ribbon because she insisted it had been done incorrectly.
“When?” I asked.
“As soon as possible.”
A pause followed.
Then she added something that made every muscle in my body go rigid.
“Please come alone.”
…
When I returned to the hotel, Julian was waiting.
Margaret stood beside the window.
The envelope containing the legal documents had been moved to the coffee table.
“Where were you?” Julian asked.
“The pharmacy.”
“You said you were resting.”
“I had a headache.”
“There was one downstairs.”
“It was closed.”
Margaret looked at my empty hands.
“What did you buy?”
“I took the tablets there.”
“What brand?”
Julian interrupted gently.
“Mother.”
She ignored him.
“What brand?”
“I don’t remember.”
For the first time since our wedding, I realized neither of them was asking because they cared.
They were checking my story.
And I finally understood something far more frightening than any forged document.
The marriage had never been the goal.
It had only been the final step of a plan that had begun long before Julian ever slipped a ring onto my finger.
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