Chapter 2 - FORTY-FIVE THOUSAND REASONS
The garden was filled with late-morning sunlight.
Through the dining-room windows, I could see Derek's relatives laughing again.
Someone had apparently cleaned Brenda's mess.
Of course they had.
The woman who created the humiliation had not been expected to kneel.
Only I had.
I moved along the balcony and descended the narrow staircase behind a row of tall hedges.
My white dress was stained with grease.
My wedding shoes were ruined.
My hair still smelled faintly of old cooking oil.
Yet I had never felt more awake.
My car was parked near the carriage house.
I had almost reached it when a man's voice stopped me.
“Leaving already?”
I turned.
Derek's uncle Raymond stood beside the garage.
Raymond was Brenda's younger brother.
He had barely spoken during the wedding.
Unlike the rest of the Whitmores, who seemed to compete over who could wear the most expensive watch, Raymond had arrived in an old navy suit and driven himself in a ten-year-old pickup truck.
At the brunch, he had been seated near the back.
I had noticed his face when Derek threw the towel.
He had not laughed.
He had looked disgusted.
Now he looked at my backpack.
Then at my face.
“Did he lock you upstairs?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Raymond nodded.
“I heard the deadbolt.”
“You're his uncle.”
“I am.”
“So why are you helping me?”
His expression hardened.
“Because being related to somebody isn't an excuse to pretend they're decent.”
I studied him.
“Did you know what they were planning?”
“Not all of it.”
That was not a comforting answer.
“What part did you know?”
Raymond looked toward the estate.
“For about six months, they've been desperate for cash.”
“I know.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Do you?”
“I know enough.”
“Then maybe you know more than I do.”
He lowered his voice.
“Derek's father, Howard, made several terrible investments.”
“Commercial property.”
“Construction equipment.”
“Two trucking contracts that collapsed.”
“They've been borrowing money to cover old borrowing.”
A classic spiral.
I knew exactly how it worked.
Debt paid debt until eventually there was nothing left except paper promises.
“Why marry me?”
I asked.
Raymond's eyes met mine.
“I asked Brenda the same question.”
My stomach twisted.
“When?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“What did she say?”
“That Derek had finally chosen a useful wife.”
Useful.
Not loving.
Not kind.
Not wonderful.
Useful.
Raymond continued.
“She said your family had strong assets.”
“She said your trust would stabilize things.”
“I assumed Derek had told you.”
“He hadn't.”
“I figured it was some arrangement between you two.”
“It wasn't.”
Raymond cursed quietly.
I opened the driver's door.
Before I could climb inside, he spoke again.
“Chloe.”
I turned.
“There is something else.”
He reached into his jacket and removed a small brass key.
“I've had this for sixteen years.”
“What does it open?”
“My father's old records room.”
“Brenda thinks it's empty.”
“It isn't.”
I stared at the key.
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“Because my father didn't trust Brenda.”
“That makes two of us.”
For the first time, Raymond almost smiled.
“He kept copies of everything.”
“Partnership agreements.”
“Loan records.”
“Share transfers.”
“Family trusts.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“I don't know.”
“Maybe nothing.”
“Maybe everything.”
He placed the key in my palm.
“Your grandfather's name appears in those records.”
My entire body went still.
“My grandfather?”
“Samuel Mercer.”
I nodded slowly.
Raymond continued.
“He and my father did business together thirty years ago.”
“I didn't know that.”
“Apparently neither does Derek.”
That mattered.
I closed my fingers around the key.
From inside the estate, the front doors opened.
Derek stepped onto the porch.
“Chloe!”
His expression changed when he saw me by the car.
He started walking quickly.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Raymond stepped between us.
Derek stopped.
“Move, Uncle Ray.”
“No.”
“She's my wife.”
Raymond's voice remained quiet.
“She isn't your property.”
Derek's face darkened.
I climbed into my car.
He moved around Raymond.
“Chloe, get out.”
I started the engine.
“You're embarrassing yourself.”
He slammed his palm against the window.
“Open the door.”
I looked directly at him.
Fourteen hours into our marriage, my husband had already thrown garbage in my face, ordered me onto my knees, and locked me inside a bedroom.
Now he expected me to obey because he raised his voice.
I lowered the window two inches.
His expression briefly softened.
“Come inside.”
“We'll talk.”
I held up my phone.
“I'm already talking to someone.”
His eyes flickered.
“Who?”
May you like
“My attorney.”
Every trace of color vanished from his face.
