Chapter 6: What Was Waiting in His Office
“Marcus, please.””
Brielle's voice followed him down the hallway.
He didn't turn around.
The house remained bright with afternoon sunlight. Through the open living room, he could hear guests whispering, glasses being set down, and someone quietly asking whether they should leave.
Marcus reached the office door.
His hand rested on the brass handle.
Behind him, Brielle's footsteps hurried across the tile.
“You don't understand what's happening,” she said.
He looked over his shoulder.
“Then explain it.””
She stopped several feet away.
“I can't do this with everyone watching.””
“You had no problem ordering my mother to wash dishes with everyone watching.””
Brielle recoiled.
“That's not fair.””
“No? Then make it fair. Tell me the truth.””
Her eyes moved toward the kitchen.
Loretta stood beside Vanessa, one hand pressed against her chest. Uncle Raymond remained nearby, his arms folded. Nobody had followed Marcus into the hallway, but nobody had returned to the party either.
Brielle lowered her voice.
“I was trying to protect us.””
Marcus stared at her.
“Protect us from what?””
She shook her head.
“I made a decision. I thought I could fix it before you ever found out.””
“What decision?””
“Marcus, I love you.””
He felt the familiar ache of hearing words that should have meant something.
“You keep saying that,” he replied.
“But every time I ask you a question, you give me another reason not to trust you.””
Brielle began crying harder.
“I never wanted to hurt your mother.””
“Yet you did.””
“I know.””
“You made her feel like a servant in her own family.””
“I know!””
Her voice broke, and for a moment he saw the woman he'd fallen in love with. The woman who had sat beside him in a hospital waiting room when his uncle needed surgery. The woman who had danced barefoot with him in the kitchen after their first successful business deal.
He wanted those memories to mean something.
He wanted her explanation to make sense.
But wanting something didn't make it true.
Marcus turned back to the office door and pushed it open.
The room looked almost exactly as he'd left it that morning.
His desk stood beneath the wide window. A framed photograph of his parents sat beside the computer. Wedding invitations were stacked in a neat pile near the printer.
Then he noticed the desk drawer.
It was open.
Marcus never left that drawer open.
He walked toward it.
Inside were folders containing household documents, insurance information, and copies of financial statements. The small lockbox he kept at the back was still there.
But a thick envelope that normally sat beneath the folders was missing.
He checked again, moving the documents aside.
Nothing.
“What's missing?”” Brielle asked from the doorway.
Marcus turned sharply.
“Stay there.””
She froze.
He looked back into the drawer.
The envelope contained copies of his property documents and financial records. Nothing that couldn't be replaced, but enough information that he didn't want anyone handling it without permission.
He pulled out his phone and took photographs of the open drawer.
Then he looked at the computer.
A document was open on the screen.
It was a draft of their wedding budget, but someone had added a new section at the bottom.
*Additional Household Funding.*
Beneath the heading were several typed figures and a list of accounts.
Marcus leaned closer.
His mother's name appeared in the second row.
Beside it was a number he recognized from her retirement statement.
He felt the air leave his lungs.
“What is this?”” he asked.
Brielle stepped into the room.
“I can explain.””
He pointed at the screen.
“Why is my mother's retirement account listed in our wedding budget?””
Brielle pressed her hands together.
“It was just a planning document.””
“Planning what?””
“Our future!””
“By listing my mother's savings?””
“I was trying to figure out how we could afford everything.””
Marcus turned toward her.
“We can afford our wedding.””
“Not the wedding I wanted.””
He stared at her.
There it was.
Not a misunderstanding. Not confusion. Not a bank error.
A choice.
Brielle had wanted a more expensive wedding, a larger reception, designer clothing, and a house she could show off to her friends. Every time Marcus suggested a reasonable alternative, she had accused him of not caring enough about their future.
He'd assumed she was frightened about the pressure of planning a wedding.
Now he wondered how many of those arguments had been designed to make him feel guilty enough to stop asking questions.
“You made a list of my mother's money,” he said.
Brielle wiped her cheeks.
“I never actually took anything from that account.””
“That's not what I asked.””
“I was trying to see what was available!””
“Available to whom?””
She stared at him.
He shook his head slowly.
“Get out of my office.””
“Marcus—”
“Now.””
Brielle backed away.
He followed her into the hallway, carrying his phone and the bank notification. The guests had gathered in the living room, no longer pretending the party was continuing.
Loretta approached him.
“Sweetheart, what did you find?””
Marcus hesitated.
He didn't want to frighten her any more than she already was.
“Some financial documents that shouldn't have been touched.””
Her face crumpled.
“Was she planning to take my savings?””
“I don't know yet.””
Brielle suddenly rushed toward them.
“I wasn't going to steal anything!””
Marcus turned.
“Then why did you list her retirement account?””
“I was trying to make a budget!””
“With money that wasn't yours?””
“I thought we'd be family!””
Loretta looked at her for a long moment.
Then she asked the question nobody else had thought to ask.
“Brielle, did you ever intend to pay me back for that dress?””
Brielle's mouth opened.
Her eyes filled again.
But this time, she couldn't seem to find a single word.
Vanessa lowered her head.
Uncle Raymond quietly took Loretta's hand.
Marcus looked at the woman he'd planned to marry in less than two months.
“I'm postponing the wedding,” he said.
Brielle went completely still.
“You can't be serious.””
“I am.””
“You're throwing away everything we've built over one mistake?””
“No,” Marcus replied.
“I'm stopping a marriage before I make a mistake I can't undo.””
She stepped toward him.
“Marcus, please. We can fix this. I'll return the dress.
I'll pay your mother back. I'll do anything.””
He looked at her soaked emerald dress.
“That's not the only thing you need to return.””
Brielle stared at him.
For a moment, he thought she might finally confess everything.
Instead, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I wasn't going to show you this tonight,” she whispered.
Marcus took one look at the document and felt his stomach tighten.
It was a printed confirmation from a financial services company.
His mother's name appeared at the top.
Beneath it was a request to authorize access to an account.
And at the bottom, beside the line marked *Authorized Representative*, was Brielle's signature.
Loretta gripped Marcus's arm.
“I never signed that.””
Marcus looked from the document to his fiancée.
Brielle's tears stopped.
Then she said the words that changed everything.
“Your mother isn't the only person whose name is on that account.””
Marcus stared at her.
“What does that mean?””
Brielle looked toward the living room, where the guests stood in absolute silence.
Then she lowered her voice.
“It means the money wasn't the only thing I was trying to get.””
And before Marcus could ask another question, his phone rang.
The caller ID displayed the name of his bank.
When he answered, a woman's professional voice came through the speaker.
“Mr. Carter, we're calling about an attempted transfer involving your mother's account. Before we proceed, we need to ask you something important.””
Marcus tightened his grip on the phone.
“What?””
There was a brief pause.
“Can you confirm whether you personally authorized Brielle Carter to access your mother's financial records?””
He looked at Brielle.
She had gone pale again.
But this time, she wasn't looking at the receipt.
May you like
She was staring at the phone.
And Marcus understood that whatever she'd been planning had reached much further than a designer dress.
