The morning after my wedding, sunlight spilled across the hotel sheets like nothing in my life had changed. Ethan lay beside me, calm, handsome, already scrolling his phone like a man who had nothing to hideI was still wearing my ring, still floating on the high of last night’s reception at La Maison—my favorite restaurant in downtown Austin, the place where Ethan had proposed and where my boss, Mark Reynolds, had gifted us the private dining room.
My phone buzzed.
MARK (Restaurant Manager): “Emma… we rechecked the security footage. You need to see this yourself. Please come alone—and don’t tell your husband anything.”
My stomach dropped so fast I felt it in my throat. “Mark, what are you talking about? Is this about the missing envelope?”Last night, right after the cake cutting, one of the servers reported a wedding card envelope had vanished from the gift table. Ethan had been furious, blaming “careless staff.” I’d been mortified. Mark had promised to review the cameras, then texted me later: Nothing clear. Probably a mix-up. We’ll keep looking.
Now his voice sounded tight. “Just… come. Side entrance. Ten minutes.”
I told Ethan I was grabbing coffee for us both. He smiled, kissed my forehead, and handed me his card. “Get the good stuff, Mrs. Carter.”
The drive felt like a blur. When I pulled behind the restaurant, Mark was already waiting by the service door, scanning the alley like he expected someone to jump out.I watched him go and realized something terrifying: I didn’t even know who I’d married.
Claire put an arm around my shoulders. “You’re going to be okay.”
I nodded, tears burning—but not from weakness. From relief.
