Chapter 2 - The Suite on the Ninth Floor
The elevator ride up to the ninth floor was completely silent except for the soft chime as we passed each floor.
My mother held her purse tightly against her stomach. My father stood beside her, his head tilted back against the mirrored wall of the elevator cab, his eyes closed. Tyler was staring at his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he canceled the town car service we had booked for the end of the night.
"Emma," my mother whispered as the elevator opened onto the carpeted ninth-floor hallway. "Mija... your dress. The wedding. All that money..."
"Don't, Mom," I said, sliding the brass keycard into the door of Suite 904. "Do not talk about the money. Not tonight. Not ever again."
We stepped into the suite. It was massive—a two-room luxury package with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark, glittering expanse of Lake Michigan. On the marble coffee table sat a bottle of vintage champagne in a silver ice bucket, two crystal flutes, and a note written in Carol’s sharp, slanted handwriting: Welcome to the Whitmore Family.
I picked up the note, ripped it into four pieces without reading it, and tossed it into the wastebasket by the desk.
"Tyler," I said, turning around. "Unzip me."
Tyler stepped up, his hands surprisingly steady as he pulled down the long row of satin-covered buttons running down the spine of my dress. The heavy boning of the corset relaxed, and for the first time in six hours, my lungs expanded fully. I pulled the heavy lace dress off my shoulders, letting it pool onto the carpet like a discarded costume, standing in my silk slip and petticoat.
My mother sat down on the edge of the king-sized bed, her hands resting in her lap. "He looked at us like we were dirt, Emma. When we walked into that room, the lady with the clipboard... she wouldn't even look me in the eye. She just pointed to the back."
"I know, Mom," I knelt beside her, resting my forehead against her knees. "I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry I let them do that to you."
"You didn't do it," my father’s voice rang out, deep and resonant. He walked over, pulled off his suit jacket, and threw it over the back of an armchair. He unbuttoned his top collar, revealing the thick silver chain he had worn since he was twenty. "You didn't write that paper, Emma. But I'll tell you one thing—I’m damn proud of my daughter tonight. You stood up there and you spoke the truth."
A heavy knock rattled the wooden door of the suite.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Emma! Open the door!" Ethan’s voice was hoarse, desperate, coming through the thick wood. "Emma, please! My dad is losing his mind down there! We need to fix this!"
Tyler moved toward the door, his jaw tightening again, but I held up my hand to stop him.
"I'll handle it," I said.
I grabbed the thick white terrycloth robe provided by the hotel, wrapped it around myself, and pulled the sash tight around my waist. I walked to the door, slid the security latch into place, and pulled the door open three inches, keeping the heavy iron chain engaged.
Ethan was standing in the hallway. His bowtie was completely unfastened, hanging loose around his unbuttoned collar. His hair, usually combed back with military precision, was disheveled. Behind him stood his father, Victor, his face dark with suppressed rage, his phone pressed against his ear as he argued with someone in a furious, hushed whisper.
"Emma," Ethan breathed, reaching his hand through the gap in the door. "Thank God. Look, we can go back down. We can move your parents to the head table right now. Carol agreed! She said we can rearrange the place cards!"
I looked at him through the narrow crack. "She agreed? How generous of her."
"Emma, don't be like this," Ethan begged, his eyes darting down the hallway as a hotel guest walked past. "Do you have any idea what is happening downstairs right now? Half the guests are leaving. Senator Vance’s aide just called Victor and said the senator is reconsidering his endorsement for Victor’s board seat! My mother is in the restroom crying!"
"Your mother is crying because she was caught, Ethan," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "She isn't crying because she hurt my parents. She's crying because her friends found out what kind of person she really is."
"They're my parents, Emma!" Ethan yelled, his voice rising in the quiet hotel corridor. "You publicly humiliated them! You took a private family issue and dragged it onto a stage in front of three hundred people! Is that how you treat people you love?"
I stared at him for three long seconds. In those three seconds, the five years we had spent together—the long study sessions in college, the quiet dinners in our first apartment, the dreams we had built about buying a house in the suburbs—dissolved into dust.
"I loved a man who would have stood up for me," I said softly. "I loved a man who would have looked at that seating chart and burned it before I ever saw it. I don't know who you are, Ethan. But you aren't him."
Victor Whitmore stepped up beside his son, slamming his hand flat against the wooden door frame. "Listen to me, young lady! You have destroyed five years of networking in thirty minutes! Do you have any idea who I am in this city? Do you have any idea what my legal team will do to you if you attempt to breach the prenuptial agreement or cause financial damages to our estate?"
"Victor," I said, looking straight into his cold, gray eyes. "I didn't sign the prenup."
Victor froze. "What?"
"The prenup your lawyers drafted—the one that said any asset division required five years of marriage—was sitting on the lawyer's desk waiting for my final signature on Monday," I said, a small, icy smile touching my lips. "I kept delaying because something felt off. And as for the wedding license..."
I pulled a crisp, blue folder from the desk behind me, reached through the gap, and held it up. It was the state marriage license, completely blank on the bride's signature line.
"We aren't married, Victor," I whispered. "Your son just paid two hundred thousand dollars for a very expensive party where everyone found out your family has no manners."
I pulled the folder back, stepped back from the gap, and slammed the heavy door shut.
I engaged the deadbolt, clicked the deadlatch, and turned the double-lock knob. From the hallway, Victor began pounding on the door again, shouting threats about suits, reputation, and blacklisting my father’s business, but his voice sounded tiny now, muffled through the heavy oak door like a storm raging outside a well-built house.
I walked back into the living room, picked up my phone from the marble table, and dialed a number I knew by heart.
May you like
"Who are you calling, Emma?" my father asked gently.
"A towing company," I said, wiping a single stray tear from my cheek. "We have four boxes of decorations in the trunk of Ethan's car. And then we're going home."
