Chapter 4 - The Secret Behind the Wedding
Julian didn't enter immediately.
He simply stood there.
Christian moved first.
“What are you doing here?”
Julian's smile remained.
“I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“Giselle.”
She shook her head.
“No, I didn't.”
Julian looked amused.
“You may want to check your guest list.”
I stepped slightly forward.
“Why were you inside my house?”
His eyes settled on me.
“General.”
“Answer me.”
“I advised Christian on corporate matters.”
“That doesn't explain my office.”
“No.”
The single word irritated me more than denial would have.
Christian stepped toward him.
“You impersonated me.”
Julian's smile finally weakened.
“That is an accusation.”
“I heard the recording.”
Silence.
Giselle stared at him.
“You told me Christian wanted those photographs.”
Julian glanced at her.
“And you believed me.”
The cruelty of that answer hit her visibly.
“You used me.”
“I gave you information. You made choices.”
I understood Julian immediately.
He liked technical innocence.
Never order someone to steal.
Convince them they are helping.
Never force a door.
Persuade someone else to open it.
I held out my hand.
“The key.”
He looked at it.
“Why?”
“Because you're standing on private property holding something you admitted was meant for Giselle.”
“I admitted nothing.”
“Then leave.”
Christian looked at me.
Julian did too.
“You don't know what the key opens.”
“No.”
“Aren't you curious?”
“Very.”
He smiled.
“That makes two of us.”
Then he placed the key on the table.
No resistance.
That worried me more.
Julian walked away.
Christian started after him.
“Don't,” I said.
He stopped.
“Why?”
“Because he wanted you to.”
Christian stared at me.
I picked up the key using a napkin.
Giselle frowned.
“What now?”
“We find out what it opens.”
The answer came faster than expected.
Engraved on one side was a number.
Giselle whispered, “There is no room 314 here.”
Christian examined it.
“Not here.”
I looked at him.
“Where?”
“The Marlowe Hotel.”
Giselle's expression changed.
Christian noticed.
“You know it?”
She nodded.
“Julian met me there once.”
“Room 314?”
“I don't know.”
I called Carver.
This time he answered immediately.
I explained only what mattered.
Unknown access.
Julian.
The key.
Marlowe Hotel.
He was silent for several seconds.
“Don't go alone.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Camille.”
“I heard you.”
He sighed.
“I know what that means.”
Twenty minutes later, two plainclothes security personnel arrived.
Christian wanted to come.
I refused.
“So does Giselle.”
“No.”
“Camille—”
“This stopped being about your affair the moment someone impersonated you to access my private records.”
Christian looked as if he wanted to argue.
Then nodded.
Giselle didn't.
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
“He contacted me. He used me. If something in that room explains why, I deserve to know.”
“You can deserve something and still not receive it immediately.”
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
I left both of them at the estate.
The Marlowe was twelve minutes away.
Room 314 was registered under a false name.
Hotel management cooperated after the appropriate security personnel explained the situation.
The key worked.
Inside was no dramatic criminal hideout.
Just an ordinary hotel room.
Bed.
Desk.
Suitcase.
Laptop.
And a cardboard document box.
My name was written on it.
We photographed everything before touching it.
The box contained public records.
My marriage certificate.
Property records.
Old photographs.
Copies of Giselle's social media posts.
Christian's corporate filings.
Someone had built a map of our lives using fragments.
Then I found a printed photograph of myself.
Taken six months earlier.
I was leaving a restaurant.
Someone had written a date beneath it.
Another photograph.
Another date.
A third.
My skin crawled.
Not because the photographs revealed anything sensitive.
Because someone had been watching.
One security officer opened the suitcase.
Empty.
The laptop required forensic handling.
Then I noticed the wastebasket.
A torn sheet of paper.
I reconstructed the pieces on the desk.
Three names.
Christian Dupont.
Giselle Dupont.
Camille.
Beside each was a dollar amount.
Giselle's was smallest.
Christian's much larger.
Mine had no number.
Just one word.
ACCESS.
I stared at it.
The wedding had never been the objective.
It was leverage.
My marriage gave Christian access to my personal life.
Christian gave Giselle access to the house.
Giselle gave Julian access to my office.
A chain.
Every link convinced it was acting for itself.
My phone rang.
Christian.
I ignored it.
It rang again.
Then Giselle.
I answered.
Her voice was shaking.
“Camille.”
“What happened?”
“Christian is gone.”
I straightened.
“What do you mean?”
“He received a message and left.”
“From whom?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you see it?”
“No.”
“Where did he go?”
“I heard him tell the driver Palm Beach.”
My house.
I was already moving.
“Do not follow him.”
“Camille—”
“Stay there.”
We left immediately.
During the drive, I called Christian.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then a text arrived.
Not from Christian.
Unknown number.
YOUR HUSBAND IS TRYING TO FIX HIS MISTAKE.
I typed:
What mistake?
The response appeared.
MARRYING YOU.
I stared at it.
Another message.
ASK HIM WHAT HE SIGNED.
My stomach tightened.
Christian had mentioned a transaction.
Minority investment.
Corporate acquisition.
What had he signed?
I called Dupont Enterprise's general counsel.
After identifying myself, I asked one question.
“Did Christian execute any major documents in the last thirty days?”
Silence.
Then:
“Mrs. Dupont, you should speak to Christian.”
“I'm speaking to you.”
Another pause.
“There was a preliminary transfer agreement.”
“For what?”
“Certain company holdings.”
“To whom?”
“An investment vehicle represented by Mercer Advisory.”
Julian.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Was the transfer completed?”
“No. It required secondary authorization.”
“Whose?”
The lawyer hesitated.
“Yours.”
I almost laughed.
“My authorization?”
“Under the marital ownership structure Christian established three years ago.”
Christian had done something I hadn't known.
Something that now prevented Julian from completing the deal.
That explained the wedding.
If Christian could create the appearance that our marriage had ended—or manipulate me into signing documents—
I stopped.
Giselle.
The wedding.
The photographs.
The house.
Julian had needed me emotionally destabilized.
Angry people signed things.
Humiliated people made mistakes.
But why would Giselle matter?
My phone vibrated.
A photograph.
Christian stood outside my Palm Beach house.
Timestamp: thirty seconds earlier.
Someone was watching him.
Then another photograph arrived.
The front door opening.
Christian stepping inside.
And behind him, partially visible in the reflection of the glass, stood someone who wasn't Julian.
I enlarged the image.
My heart stopped.
I knew her.
She had worked for Christian for years.
His executive assistant.
Rebecca Hale.
The woman who had arranged half our anniversary dinners.
The woman who always called me “Mrs. Dupont.”
May you like
Then a final message appeared.
SHE HAS BEEN HELPING HIM SINCE THE BEGINNING.
