Chapter 1 - The Groom Was My Husband
“The groom is here!” someone shouted.
I looked down at the green-faced watch on the man walking toward the altar.
There was a tiny scratch beside the number four.
I had put it there myself.
The groom was my husband.
For several seconds, the entire wedding seemed to move without me.
Guests rose from their white chairs. Applause rolled through the garden. A violinist changed melodies. Someone behind me whispered that Giselle looked beautiful.
She did.
My former classmate stood beneath an arch covered with white roses and pale pink flowers, smiling as if every cruel thing she had ever said about other women had finally been rewarded.
Her white gown caught the afternoon light. Her veil moved gently behind her. She held her bouquet against her waist and stared down the aisle at Christian Dupont.
My Christian Dupont.
My husband of three years.
He walked toward her wearing a black tuxedo, a white boutonniere, and the watch I had given him on the night he proposed to me.
I didn't stand.
I didn't scream.
I didn't call his name.
My hands remained folded over the formal cap resting on my lap.
Years in uniform had taught me something anger never could.
When the situation changes without warning, don't react before you understand the battlefield.
And at that moment, my marriage felt exactly like one.
Christian hadn't seen me yet.
That gave me time.
Not much.
But enough.
Three hours earlier, I hadn't even known I was attending my husband's second wedding.
That morning had begun with a voice message from Giselle.
I hadn't spoken to her privately in years, but I recognized the voice immediately.
“Camille, if you're embarrassed to come because you can't afford a decent wedding gift, don't worry. You can help watch the gift-envelope table.”
She laughed softly afterward.
That laugh took me straight back to high school.
Giselle had always known how to make an insult sound like generosity.
I had almost ignored the message.
For nearly ten years, my career had demanded almost everything from me. By my early thirties, I had reached the rank of Major General and worked in positions where discretion wasn't merely professional courtesy.
It was mandatory.
I rarely posted photographs.
I didn't discuss assignments.
I didn't advertise promotions.
Even many people who had known me growing up assumed I had simply “joined the military” and disappeared.
I preferred it that way.
Christian had once claimed he admired it.
“You don't need strangers applauding you,” he'd told me after one promotion.
I remembered smiling.
Neither did I.
Apparently, Giselle did.
Curiosity made me open our old high school group chat.
The messages were exactly what I expected.
“Camille, are you still alive?”
“Giselle invited you a month ago.”
“She probably won't come.”
“What would she have to compete with?”
Then I found Giselle's announcement.
“I’m marrying Christian Dupont. Yes, THE Christian Dupont, president of Dupont Enterprise Group.”
My thumb had stopped moving.
Christian Dupont wasn't an unusual enough name to frighten me.
Not immediately.
Then I opened the photograph.
Everything inside me went cold.
Giselle stood in an ivory dress beside a handsome dark-haired man.
My husband.
Christian.
He was smiling.
His right arm was around her waist.
And on his wrist was the green-faced watch I had personally selected for him after our engagement.
My phone vibrated before I could breathe properly.
Christian.
Love, are you working today?
Then:
I haven't seen you in weeks.
And finally:
I miss you, wife.
I stared at that last word for a long time.
Wife.
For three years, that had been me.
Or at least I had believed it was.
Our marriage wasn't conventional.
Deployments separated us. Classified assignments changed plans overnight. There were periods when I couldn't tell Christian where I was going, how long I would be gone, or when I could call.
He had always said he understood.
“I married all of you,” he used to tell me. “Including the uniform.”
Apparently, he had also built another life during the spaces between mine.
I returned to the group chat.
My fingers were perfectly steady.
I typed:
“I’m coming.”
That was how I ended up at Saint Augustine estate.
My superior, General Raymond Carver, had arranged transportation after hearing me request my first personal day in years.
He hadn't asked many questions.
That was another habit military life taught people.
But when I stepped toward the vehicle, he'd said, “First day off you've requested in ten years.”
Then he'd looked at me carefully.
“Make it worth it.”
I intended to.
Giselle spotted me shortly after I arrived.
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Camille... you actually came.”
“I said I would.”
Her eyes traveled slowly over my formal uniform.
For one second, something uncertain crossed her face.
Then the old smile returned.
“I’m glad.”
She touched my sleeve lightly.
“I suppose it doesn't matter that our lives took such... different paths.”
Two former classmates nearby laughed.
I looked at Giselle.
“No,” I said. “I suppose it doesn't.”
That answer seemed to disappoint her.
She wanted embarrassment.
Jealousy.
Maybe anger.
I gave her nothing.
Instead, she began showing me photographs.
Her and Christian at restaurants.
Her and Christian on boats.
Her and Christian drinking champagne.
Then she swiped to another photograph.
I stopped breathing.
I recognized the terrace immediately.
Palm Beach.
My house.
Christian had purchased part of the property before our marriage, and I had later bought out the remaining interest during renovations. It was legally ours, though most of the renovation costs had come from me.
Giselle was standing against the terrace railing.
Behind her was the ocean.
Another photograph.
Our kitchen.
Another.
The upstairs hallway.
Then another.
My bedroom curtains.
I stared at the screen.
Giselle didn't notice the change in me.
Or maybe she mistook it for envy.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
“Very.”
“Christian has incredible taste.”
I almost smiled.
I had chosen those curtains.
I had selected the furniture.
I had designed the reading alcove visible behind Giselle's shoulder.
“Some places start to feel like home,” one of her captions read.
Giselle appeared beside me with champagne.
“Impressed?”
“Very.”
Her smile widened.
“Christian says after the wedding, that house will be our favorite.”
That was the moment something inside me stopped hurting.
Pain became clarity.
This wasn't merely an affair.
Christian had brought her into our home.
Into our bedroom.
He had allowed her to believe pieces of my life belonged to her.
And judging by Giselle's confidence, he'd done far more than lie about being single.
He had promised her a future.
Now he was walking toward the altar to deliver it.
The applause became louder.
Christian was halfway down the aisle.
I watched him carefully.
He looked happy.
That hurt more than I expected.
Not guilty.
Not nervous.
Happy.
For one terrible second, I remembered our own wedding.
There had been no estate.
No hundreds of flowers.
No enormous guest list.
Just a small private ceremony because I had received orders that changed our plans.
Christian had held my hands afterward and said, “One day we'll have the ridiculous celebration everyone thinks we're supposed to have.”
Apparently, he had kept that promise.
Just not with me.
He reached Giselle.
She slipped her hand through his arm.
Christian leaned toward her.
She whispered something.
He laughed.
I felt my fingers tighten around my cap.
The woman seated beside me glanced down.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
It surprised me that I meant it.
I wasn't okay in the way she meant.
But I was in control.
And control was enough.
The officiant prepared to begin.
Christian turned toward the guests.
His gaze moved casually across the rows.
First row.
Second.
Third.
He smiled at someone.
Then his eyes moved farther.
Closer.
I didn't move.
His gaze reached my row.
Passed the man beside me.
Passed the woman beside him.
Then stopped.
On me.
Christian froze.
It was subtle.
Most people probably didn't notice.
I did.
I knew every version of his face.
The face he made when amused.
The one he made when negotiating.
The expression he wore when exhausted.
The little tightening around his mouth when he lied.
But I had never seen this expression before.
His skin seemed to lose color.
His smile disappeared.
His eyes dropped to my uniform.
Then my hands.
Then my face again.
Giselle whispered, “Christian?”
He didn't answer.
I held his gaze.
No tears.
No accusation.
Nothing.
Just silence.
His lips moved.
I couldn't hear him from where I sat.
But I knew my own name.
Camille.
Giselle followed his stare.
She looked at me.
Then back at Christian.
Her smile weakened.
“Do you know her?”
Christian swallowed.
The officiant shifted awkwardly.
Guests began whispering.
I still didn't move.
Christian's hand slowly fell away from Giselle's.
Then my phone vibrated inside my jacket.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I finally looked down.
Christian.
DON'T SAY ANYTHING.
Another message appeared.
PLEASE.
Then a third.
THERE'S SOMETHING YOU DON'T KNOW.
I stared at those words.
For the first time that afternoon, a chill moved through me that had nothing to do with betrayal.
Because Christian wasn't looking at Giselle anymore.
He was looking past me.
Toward the gift table.
And he looked terrified.
My phone vibrated again.
A photograph appeared from an unknown number.
It showed Christian entering my Palm Beach house with Giselle.
But they weren't alone.
A third person was walking behind them.
I enlarged the image.
My breath caught.
I knew that face.
Then another message arrived.
DON'T TRUST YOUR HUSBAND.
A second line appeared beneath it.
BUT DON'T TRUST THE BRIDE EITHER.
And before I could turn around, someone behind me whispered my name.
“General Camille?”
I looked over my shoulder.
A woman I had never seen before was holding a sealed envelope.
My full name was written across the front.
May you like
And beneath it were four words:
OPEN BEFORE THEY MARRY.
