Chapter 2 - Packing Up the Past
The quiet of the upstairs guest suite offered a temporary sanctuary from the oppressive noise of the celebration downstairs. My chest heaving, I strode over to the corner where I had neatly stacked my luggage earlier that morning. We had planned to spend the entire weekend here at the family estate before heading back to my downtown apartment—an apartment, I bitterly remembered, that I paid for entirely with my own design firm earnings.
I unzipped my suitcase and began tossing my things inside with hurried, aggressive movements: extra batteries for my camera, important business documents I couldn't leave behind, and the simple, elegant white dress I had worn when we went to register our marriage just this morning.
The door clicked open. Marcelo stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored tuxedo trousers, looking annoyed rather than remorseful.
“You’re overreacting,” Marcelo said, his tone dripping with patronizing condescension.
I paused, holding my wedding registration papers in my hands. I waited for him to say something else—to try and stop me, to apologize for his mother’s blatant cruelty, or perhaps to ask how I was feeling after standing there humiliated in front of two hundred people.
Instead, his eyes flicked down to my open suitcase and the packed clothes.
“So, what, you’re just going to walk out like a spoiled child, leaving my mother to foot the bill for all of this?” Marcelo demanded, taking a step into the room.
That was the breaking point. The man I had legally bound my life to just hours ago wasn't worried about my dignity, my feelings, or our wedding night. He was worried about social optics and money—money that, ironically, came directly from my corporate bank account.
“Your mother isn't footing any bill, Marcelo,” I said, snapping my suitcase shut with a sharp, echoing click. “Check your corporate ledger. You might find that your family’s proud little estate isn't quite as liquid as you’ve been pretending.”
Before he could process my words, I grabbed my handbag, hoisted my suitcase, and walked past him without breaking stride.
As I marched down the grand staircase and out the front doors into the crisp afternoon air, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A push notification from my banking app lit up the screen. I ignored it for a moment, focusing entirely on reaching my car parked near the fountain.
I unlocked my sedan, tossed my suitcase into the passenger seat, and slid behind the steering wheel. As I slammed the door, shutting out the faint strains of classical music drifting from the ballroom, the screen lit up again with a second, more urgent alert.
May you like
Curiosity finally overriding my anger, I tapped the notification and opened my transaction history. What I saw on the screen made my breath catch in my throat. It wasn't just the eight thousand seven hundred dollars for the wedding lunch. It was a series of massive wire transfers executed quietly over the last seventy-two hours—transfers draining my personal business accounts, all authorized through a power of attorney document I had signed weeks ago under the guise of "routine tax consolidation."
A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. They hadn't just invited me to my own wedding to humiliate me. They had used me to fund their bankruptcy bailout.
