“My son has finally found true happiness. A union of souls in Bali. I am so proud of you both.”
I enlarged the image, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. I scanned the crowd in the background. It wasn’t just an elopement. Trevor’s entire family was there. His cousins, the aunts who critiqued my cooking, the uncles who asked me for stock tips—they were all there, raising champagne glasses, laughing, celebrating.
They knew.
They had all known.
While I sat in this glass tower paying the mortgage on the sprawling mansion in Connecticut, while I paid the lease on Trevor’s imported Porsche, while I funded Denise’s cosmetic surgeries, they had flown to Bali to celebrate his second marriage.
The betrayal wasn’t just a knife in the back; it was a firing squad.
I didn’t cry. I think I was too shock-frozen for tears. Instead, a cold, metallic clarity washed over me. I dialed Denise.
She answered on the second ring, her voice smooth, cultured, and utterly devoid of guilt.
“Brianna,” she said, the name tasting like something sour in her mouth. “I suppose you have seen the photographs. You always were a snoop.”
“A snoop?” I repeated, my voice terrifyingly steady. “Denise, I am looking at evidence of bigamy. Trevor is legally married to me.”
Denise laughed softly, a sound like ice clinking in a glass. “Oh, Brianna, don’t be so provincial. You always think money and laws can control everything. You never understood the Miles spirit. You never gave my son a child. You never gave him warmth; you only gave him checks. Kaitlyn is pregnant. She is giving him a legacy. Do not stand in their way.”
“You’re admitting to a crime,” I whispered.
“I’m admitting to happiness,” she snapped, her tone hardening. “We expected you to be difficult. But know this: Trevor has moved on. Learn to accept reality, dear. You were merely the bridge to get us here.”
The call ended.
I sat in the silence for a long time. The “bridge.” That’s what I was. A beast of burden to carry them across the swamp of their own financial incompetence until they found a prettier, younger vessel.
Something inside me snapped. But it didn’t break into grief. It hardened into diamond.
They believed I was the docile provider. The workhorse who would beg for reconciliation, who would throw money at them to keep the peace. What they forgot—what they arrogantly, stupidly ignored—was that every major asset, from the mansion to the cars, was registered in my name.
Trevor owned nothing but his wardrobe and his ego. And I was about to strip him of both.
I stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city lights below looked like embers.
“Accept reality?” I whispered to the glass reflection. “No, Denise. I’m going to rewrite it.”
That night, I did not return to the mansion in Connecticut. The thought of sleeping in that bed, surrounded by the ghosts of a fraudulent marriage, made bile rise in my throat. instead, I checked into the St. Regis in Manhattan under my maiden name.
I ordered a pot of strong black tea, opened my laptop, and initiated the scorched-earth protocol.
