Chapter 4 - The Witness in the Garden
The tension in the doorway felt thick enough to cut with a knife. Julian’s hand lingered on the doorframe, his knuckles turning white against the polished wood. For a terrifying second, Elena thought he might push his way into the room, rip the letter from her fingers, and drop the charming facade once and for all. But then, a sharp chime echoed from his tuxedo pocket—a discreet text message alert.
Julian glanced down at his phone, his expression shifting instantly from guarded suspicion to a cold, calculation that chilled Elena to her core. He slipped his phone back into his pocket without looking at the screen.
"I’ll give you two minutes, Elena," Julian said, his voice dropping to a smooth, low register that sent a shiver down her spine. "Don't keep me waiting too long. The groom walking out on his own wedding makes for terrible PR."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked down the carpeted hallway, his polished shoes clicking rhythmically until the sound faded away.
Sarah exhaled a breath she seemed to have been holding for a century, collapsing back against the velvet armchair. "He knows," she whispered, her hands shaking uncontrollably. "Did you see his face? He knows you found out."
"He doesn't know the half of it," Elena replied, closing the door and locking it with a sharp, definitive click. She walked back to the window, her mind racing. The letter wasn't just a financial ledger; it was a desperate plea from someone trapped inside Julian's web of deceit. She unfolded the paper again, her eyes scanning down to the final paragraph that she hadn't yet read.
“If you are reading this on your wedding morning,” the anonymous author had written in frantic, hurried strokes, “it means I didn't make it out in time. Julian isn't who you think he is. The fire at his previous estate five years ago wasn't an accident. And the insurance payout is the only reason he can afford this wedding.”
Elena’s breath caught. Five years ago. Before they even met. Julian had told her his first fiancée had tragically died in a kitchen fire while he was away on a business trip. He had played the grieving, heartbroken widower so convincingly that Elena had spent the first year of their relationship comforting him, apologizing for bringing up the past.
"A fire?" Sarah gasped, reading over Elena’s shoulder as Elena held the paper out. "Julian said that was a tragic accident. The police report cleared him!"
"Police reports can be rewritten if you have enough money and the right connections," a voice spoke from the shadows near the balcony doors.
Both women spun around, shrieking in unison. Standing by the open glass doors, half-hidden by the heavy drapes, was a young woman in a muddy maid’s uniform. Her hair was disheveled, her hands scraped and bleeding, and her eyes wide with frantic desperation.
"Who are you? How did you get in here?" Sarah demanded, stepping in front of Elena protectively.
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The stranger raised her hands defensively, shaking her head. "My name is Maya. I used to work at the estate Julian rented in the mountains. I’m the one who wrote that letter. And if you walk down that aisle with him today, Elena, you won't live to see your first anniversary."
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