Chapter 3 - They Had Already Planned the Wedding at My House
By noon the next day, Rachel had uncovered enough to make my skin crawl.
Blake had not simply presented my house as a wedding venue.
He had presented it as an asset he expected to control.
There were emails discussing “future private events.”
Corporate retreats.
Luxury weddings.
Film shoots.
One proposal described my home as the flagship property of BM Luxury Events.
My house.
My gardens.
My dock.
My privacy.
Their business model.
Without me.
Rachel leaned back in my office chair.
“This looks bigger than a wedding.”
“How much bigger?”
“We don't know yet.”
My phone rang.
Dad.
This time, I answered.
“Claire, what are you doing?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“The florist called Marissa.”
“I imagine she did.”
“She says you've canceled everything.”
“I canceled nothing. I informed vendors that my property isn't available.”
Dad exhaled loudly.
“Same difference.”
“No, Dad. It really isn't.”
“Your sister is hysterical.”
“Then perhaps Blake can comfort her.”
“What does Blake have to do with this?”
“A lot.”
I told him about the forged documents.
Silence.
Then he said, “I'm sure it's a misunderstanding.”
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
Not because I believed him.
Because I finally understood him.
My father did not need evidence to defend Marissa.
He needed evidence to stop defending her.
Those are very different standards.
“Dad, somebody forged my signature.”
“Marissa probably thought you'd eventually agree.”
“That's your response?”
“I'm saying don't destroy a family over paperwork.”
I looked out at the Hudson.
“No,” I said. “I'm protecting myself because my family decided paperwork didn't matter when my name was on it.”
I hung up.
At 3:40 p.m., Marissa arrived at my gate.
Security called.
“She says she's your sister.”
“I know who she is.”
“She wants access.”
“No.”
Through the security monitor, I watched her standing beside her white SUV.
She pressed the intercom repeatedly.
Finally, I activated it.
“What?”
Her face snapped toward the camera.
“You canceled my wedding.”
“No. I prevented you from holding it at my house.”
“Same thing!”
“Interesting. I thought you said you only wanted to borrow my house. Apparently your entire wedding depends on stealing it.”
Her mouth opened.
“Stealing?”
“You forged my signature.”
“I did not.”
“Then Blake did.”
She froze.
Barely.
But I saw it.
That was enough.
“You knew,” I said.
“Claire—”
“You knew.”
“It wasn't like that.”
“What was it like?”
She looked toward the camera.
“We knew you'd come around.”
“And if I didn't?”
“You always do!”
There it was.
Not cruelty.
Certainty.
Marissa had built her life around the belief that eventually Claire would fix it.
Pay it.
Forgive it.
Absorb it.
I looked at my sister through the monitor.
“No,” I said.
Her face changed.
“No what?”
“No, I won't come around.”
“Claire.”
“You wanted me to stop expecting you to treat me like family.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I accepted.”
I disconnected.
She remained outside for twenty-three minutes.
Then she left.
That evening, Marcus called me into the security room.
“You should see this.”
Footage appeared on the monitor.
Timestamp:
Three weeks earlier.
2:14 p.m.
My parents had visited while I was traveling.
I remembered.
Mom wanted to see the gardens.
Dad wanted to borrow some books.
But they hadn't come alone.
Blake was with them.
The footage showed Dad entering through the front door.
Mom followed.
Then Blake.
He carried a leather portfolio.
They spent forty-seven minutes inside.
At one point Blake photographed my study.
My desk.
The built-in cabinet where I kept household documents.
I stared.
“How did he get into that room?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Your father opened it.”
The answer landed like a stone.
I watched Dad unlock my study.
Watched Blake enter.
Watched my mother stand outside.
Nobody looked confused.
Nobody looked accidental.
Rachel arrived thirty minutes later.
We watched the footage together.
Then she asked the question I had been avoiding.
“What documents were stored in that cabinet?”
“Insurance. Property records. Tax files.”
“Deed?”
“A copy.”
“Signature samples?”
I thought about it.
Then remembered.
Closing documents.
Signed.
Several pages.
My stomach turned.
Blake hadn't needed to imitate my signature from memory.
My father had let him into a room containing dozens of examples.
I called Dad.
He answered immediately.
“Claire—”
“Why did you bring Blake into my study?”
Silence.
“What?”
“I have cameras.”
Another silence.
Longer.
“He needed measurements.”
“For what?”
“The wedding.”
“The wedding I hadn't approved?”
“Claire—”
“Did you give him access to my files?”
“No.”
“You unlocked the cabinet.”
“He said he needed property information for insurance.”
I closed my eyes.
My own father had handed Blake everything he needed.
Maybe Dad hadn't understood what Blake intended.
Maybe he had.
Either way, something inside me broke cleanly.
Then Rachel touched my arm and pointed toward the monitor.
“Wait.”
The footage continued.
Blake exited the study.
But before leaving, he slipped something into his portfolio.
Marcus zoomed in.
A document.
We couldn't read it.
But I recognized the blue border.
My property deed copy.
And suddenly I knew exactly where Blake had gotten the information he needed to build his fantasy business around my home.
What I didn't know was what else he had done with it.
We found out the following morning.
At 8:06 a.m., Rachel called.
“Claire, don't panic.”
Nobody says that before good news.
“What happened?”
“Blake filed something with the county.”
“What?”
“A property-related document.”
My heart began pounding.
“What kind?”
Rachel inhaled.
“A transfer affidavit.”
And it contained my forged signature.
May you like
Again.
---
Related Stories
