Those texts were sent less than thirty minutes ago.
Breathe, Millie.
Just breathe.
The ceremony is in three days.
Closing the window on my computer, I push my chair away from my desk and bend forward. Putting my head between my knees, I close my eyes and focus on taking deep, measured breaths. Feeling my chest open and expand with each of them before I let them out in a slow and steady stream.
Paige and Allister are having an affair.
My fiancé and my cousin.
Mybest friend.
Years.
It’s been going on for years.
The rehearsal dinner is tonight.
How am I supposed to face them, knowing?—
The phone on my desk lets out a muted beep, the sound of it followed by my assistant’s voice, reaching for me through the intercom. “Ms. Blackwell, Mr. Whittmore is on line one.”
Allister.
Without lifting my head, I reach out to fumble with the intercom button. “Tell him I’m unavailable. Thank you, Alice.” Releasing the intercom button, I move to drop my shaky hand back into my lap, but I stall out when it buzzes again.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Blackwell but he’s insisting?—”
Lifting my head, I press the button again. “It’s okay, Alice. I’ll take the call.” Pressing the button on the phone next to the flashing green line, I pick up the receiver. “Hello, darling,” I say, in a sticky sweet tone I don’t recognize as my own. “Is everything okay?”
“Hi. Yes—” Taken aback by my tone, Allisterpauses. “Are you okay, Millie? You don’t sound like yourself,” he says, his smooth tone laced tight with worry, and for just a second, it doesn’t seem possible.
This is Allister.
The man I’m going to marry.
My father adores him.
Trusts him.
So much so that he just promoted Allister to senior vice president, in charge of?—
“Millie?”
Snapping out of my reverie, I look at the ring Allister put on my finger over a year ago. It’s nearly seven carats, the stone entirely too big for my finger. I have to take it off to do just about everything. After he proposed, I almost asked if we could exchange it for something smaller but he’d looked so happy, so relieved I said yes that in the end, I didn’t have the heart. Remembering that look, I feel my chest start to loosen.
A joke.
This has to be a sick joke.
Text messages can be faked.
So can photos.
With AI, anything is possible.
