Chapter 2: The Mask Slips
Rebecca’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes did something strange—a microscopic hardening, a flicker of irritation that vanished as quickly as it appeared. She glided down the stone pathway toward us, her silk train whispering against the pavers. To anyone watching from the rows of white folding chairs, this was simply a bride eager to reach the altar, gently managing a fussy child.
"Look at you, sweetheart," Rebecca cooed, bending down toward Emily with outstretched hands, her long lace sleeves fluttering. "You’ve ruined your hair. Let’s get you backstage before the photographs."
I didn't move. I stood between Rebecca and my daughter, my boots planted firmly on the stone. Rebecca paused, her manicured fingers hovering an inch from Emily's shoulder. Her head tilted to the side, a gesture of practiced confusion.
"Mark? Is something wrong with the sound system?" she asked, lowering her voice just enough so it wouldn't carry to the front row of guests. "The caterers are already moving the champagne."
I held up the crumpled piece of stationery, opening my palm so the text faced her. I didn't raise my voice. In our house, shouting was vulgar; silence was the weapon of choice. But the silence I projected now had weight.
"What is this, Rebecca?" I asked.
Rebecca glanced down at the note. For a fraction of a second, her breath hitched. Her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. Then, as smooth as water finding its level, her expression shifted into one of indulgent amusement. She straightened up, brushing a nonexistent speck of lint from her pristine white lace bodice.
"Oh, that," she sighed, shaking her head with a light, dismissive laugh. "Emily has such an overactive imagination. Children that age, without a mother figure for so long, they build up these dramatic little anxieties. I told her we’d have a new routine after the wedding—that her old playroom would become our guest suite, and her things would go into storage. She must have dramatized it."
Behind us, Emily let out a small, jagged breath and clutched the fabric of my tuxedo jacket. Her things in storage. The phrase didn't sound like an overactive child's imagination. It sounded absolute.
May you like
"She said she has to leave forever," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "Those were her words. And this is your stationery."
Rebecca’s eyes flashed—not with remorse, but with cold, aristocratic annoyance. "Mark, we are standing twenty yards away from two hundred people who are waiting to watch us sign a legal contract. Do not do this right now. Hand the child to Sarah, take a breath, and let’s start the music."
