He said they were administrative documents related to the property we would be moving into after the honeymoon.
I had been exhausted from wedding preparations.
I hadn’t read them carefully.
Claire closed her eyes.
“Oh, Emma.”
Then my phone vibrated again.
This time, it wasn’t Adrian.
It was a message from an unknown number.
You did the right thing by leaving. Don’t go to your parents’ house. Don’t use your bank cards. Contact an attorney before speaking to anyone in the Blackwood family.
A second message arrived.
Victor.
I stared at the screen.
And then a third message appeared.
They’ve already discovered that you’re gone.
My name is Emma Carter.
I was twenty-six when I married Adrian Blackwood, a man I believed was the answer to every quiet hope I had ever carried about love.
I grew up in a modest house outside Philadelphia.
