Chapter 3 - The Cream-Colored Envelope
The weeks leading up to the wedding were a masterclass in psychological warfare. Adrian wanted me broken. He wanted me to show up at his wedding looking pathetic, weeping in the back pew, validating his ego one last time.
I refused to give him that satisfaction.
Elena and I finalized the timeline with the federal agents. The FBI had quietly secured warrants based on my ledgers and the audio recordings. They had frozen the offshore accounts, but placed a temporary seal on the action so Adrian’s banking alerts wouldn't trigger until the exact right moment.
"Are you sure you want to do this at the church?" Agent Harris, the lead federal investigator, asked me during our final briefing. "We could just pick him up at his office on Monday morning. It’s safer. Less collateral damage."
"He stole my life, Agent Harris," I said, looking out the window of the federal building. "He abused me in secret because he cared entirely about his public image. His image is his most prized possession. I want to take it from him in front of everyone he respects."
Harris sighed but nodded. He understood the need for a public reckoning.
The morning of the wedding, I woke up before dawn. I didn't feel the familiar anxiety that used to knot my stomach whenever I had to face Adrian. I felt light.
I went to a high-end salon, spending the last of my meager savings. I had my hair styled in sleek, sharp waves—a stark contrast to the meek, pulled-back styles Adrian had always forced upon me.
I put on a dress I had bought specifically for this day. It wasn't black for mourning, nor was it a desperate attempt to look flashy. It was a tailored, deep crimson sheath dress. The color of power. The color of the blood I had shed on his marble floors.
Elena arrived at my apartment precisely at noon. She was dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, carrying a sleek leather briefcase.
"You look like a weapon," she said, eyeing me approvingly.
"Good," I replied, grabbing my clutch. Inside was a small, modified digital audio player, connected to a powerful Bluetooth amplifier I had hidden in the chapel the night before, disguised as an acoustic monitor.
We got into Elena’s town car. The drive to Saint Bartholomew’s was quiet. The streets of the city blurred past my window. I thought about the terrified woman I used to be, the woman who practiced lying to doctors, the woman who thought she deserved the back of his hand.
I left that woman in the past. Today, I was the accountant. And it was time to collect the debt.
As we pulled up to the magnificent stone facade of the chapel, luxury cars were lined up around the block. Valets rushed back and forth. Women in designer gowns and men in bespoke tuxedos chatted happily on the steps.
May you like
"Showtime," Elena murmured, stepping out of the car.
I took a deep breath, letting the crisp autumn air fill my lungs, and stepped out to join her.
