“I begged her to tell you directly,” he said quietly. “She refused.”
“She said the only way you would believe it was if he proved her right himself.”
I picked up the first bank record.
Then another.
Then a collection letter bearing Michael’s name in bold type, followed by an amount that made my stomach twist.
“He’s been telling everyone he inherited money from his aunt,” I whispered.
“There was no aunt.”
I shut my eyes.
Two years of Sunday visits.
Two years spent believing that, slowly, he had fallen in love with the person I truly was.
In reality, he had been observing me.
Testing me.
Waiting to learn whether I was soft enough to carry him.
“What do I do?” I asked.
The lawyer rose and picked up his hat.
“That’s not for me to say. But your sister put her final hope in you. She believed you were stronger than you knew.”
He stopped before leaving.
“She said, and I quote, ‘Evelyn will do the right thing. She just needs to see him with her own eyes.'”
Then he walked away.
I stared down at the financial papers resting across my knees.
The man I had married days earlier had never loved me.
He had only been searching for a substitute.
I concealed the wooden box just as Michael’s key entered the lock.
I pushed the documents into my sewing basket and slipped the ring into my apron pocket.
My hands shook, but I kept my expression calm.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Michael asked, placing a grocery bag on the kitchen counter. “You look pale.”
“I think the tea went cold,” I said. “I was reading.”
He kissed the crown of my head with the casual confidence of someone touching property.
—
