Chapter 4 - The Bride Who Thought She Had Already Won
Martin disappeared before we reached the ballroom.
That was our first mistake.
The second was assuming Florence was the only person who had underestimated Christina.
Hotel security checked the lobby.
Nothing.
The parking garage.
Nothing.
Martin’s car remained parked downstairs.
Then one of the officers discovered a service exit had been opened seven minutes earlier.
Martin had run.
Evelyn immediately contacted investigators.
Meanwhile, more than a hundred wedding guests were still waiting.
I walked into the ballroom alone.
Conversation stopped.
I stood where Florence and I were supposed to exchange vows.
There was no graceful way to say it.
So I didn’t try.
“There will be no wedding today.”
Gasps moved through the room.
“I’m sorry to everyone who traveled here. Circumstances have come to my attention that make this marriage impossible.”
I refused to provide details.
Not yet.
But rumors spread before the first guest reached the elevator.
I didn’t care.
I found Leo sitting with Rebecca near the hotel entrance.
Then I saw Christina.
She was in a wheelchair.
A pale bruise marked one side of her forehead.
I crossed the lobby faster than I had moved in years.
“Dad.”
I dropped to my knees.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
I simply held her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“For not listening.”
Christina closed her eyes.
“You wanted to be happy.”
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“No.”
She pulled back.
“But it’s a beginning.”
Leo ran toward her.
“Mommy!”
Christina gathered him into her arms.
Watching them, I understood how close I had come to sacrificing the people who loved me for someone who had studied exactly how to manipulate my loneliness.
But the danger wasn’t over.
Rebecca opened her laptop.
“I found something.”
We went upstairs to a secured conference room.
Christina explained that Martin’s theft predated Florence by at least five years.
Small amounts disappeared through vendor contracts, consulting agreements, and property-management companies.
Individually, nothing looked extraordinary.
Together, they totaled millions.
“How did nobody catch this?” I asked.
Rebecca answered.
“Because Martin didn’t steal like a thief.”
“What does that mean?”
“He stole like an accountant.”
The money was hidden inside legitimate expenses.
A percentage here.
A fee there.
Inflated invoices.
Dormant subsidiaries.
Then Florence entered the picture.
Her original motivation appeared to have been revenge.
Her father, Charles Fairmont, had once invested heavily in a development project involving a Prescott subsidiary.
The project collapsed.
Charles lost most of his fortune.
He died several years later.
Florence blamed me.
But when she began researching my company, she discovered Martin’s scheme.
Instead of exposing him, she approached him.
She had leverage.
He had access.
Together, they built a plan.
Florence would enter my life.
Earn my trust.
Marry me.
Martin would use forged paperwork to give her access to key holdings.
Then they would slowly dismantle portions of my estate.
“Why not just steal money?” I asked.
Christina looked at me.
“Because Florence wanted more.”
“What?”
“She wanted your name ruined.”
That was the revenge.
Not poverty.
Humiliation.
She wanted the Prescott family fighting publicly while our companies collapsed internally.
And Christina was the obstacle.
“She knew I would inherit,” Christina said. “She also knew I would challenge any unusual transfers.”
“So she separated us.”
“Yes.”
I remembered every argument.
Every time Florence said Christina needed space.
Every time she told me my daughter was possessive.
Every time I chose peace with Florence over an uncomfortable conversation with my own child.
I had helped build the wall between us.
That realization hurt more than the money.
An officer entered.
“Mr. Prescott?”
“Yes?”
“We found Mr. Keller.”
“Where?”
“Airport.”
Martin had attempted to board a flight under a reservation purchased that morning.
He had a laptop and two encrypted drives.
Investigators took him into custody for questioning.
Florence, meanwhile, had stopped cooperating.
But she made one request.
She wanted to speak to me.
Alone.
The police refused.
So we met with an officer and Evelyn present.
Florence had changed out of her wedding gown.
She wore ordinary clothes now.
Without the veil, flowers, and carefully staged elegance, she looked strangely smaller.
“You ruined my life,” she said.
I sat opposite her.
“No.”
“You destroyed my father.”
“I didn’t.”
“You owned the company.”
“The investment failed.”
“He lost everything.”
“So did many investors.”
“You walked away rich.”
“I offered an independent review.”
“My father didn’t need charity.”
“Elizabeth offered help.”
Florence flinched at my late wife’s name.
“You knew about that letter?”
“I do now.”
Her eyes filled with old anger.
“My father died believing the Prescotts destroyed him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“Your sympathy doesn’t change anything.”
“No. But neither does revenge.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You get to say that because you never lost everything.”
I thought of Elizabeth.
“I have lost things money couldn’t replace.”
Florence looked away.
For a moment, she seemed human again.
Then I asked:
“Did you ever love me?”
Her eyes returned to mine.
The answer mattered more than I wanted it to.
She waited.
Finally:
“I didn’t plan to.”
My chest tightened.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
She looked down.
“When I met you, I hated you.”
“And later?”
“You were supposed to be arrogant.”
I said nothing.
“You were supposed to treat waiters badly and brag about money. You were supposed to be exactly the man my father described.”
“But?”
“You weren’t.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“I tried to remember why I was there.”
“Did you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
I believed that answer.
And somehow it was sadder than a lie.
Then she looked at me.
“But Christina would never stop.”
“She was protecting me.”
“She was taking you away.”
“No, Florence.”
I stood.
“You were taking me away from her.”
As I reached the door, Florence spoke.
“Jonathan.”
I stopped.
“There’s one thing Christina still doesn’t know.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Martin kept a second set of files.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because if those files disappear, your company may survive.”
She paused.
“But if they become public, hundreds of innocent employees could lose everything.”
And suddenly the scandal was no longer only about my family.
Thousands of people depended on Prescott Development.
May you like
Florence had just told me the final weapon was still out there.
And Martin might not be the only person looking for it.
