She knew his former students would be at the wedding.
She knew his seventy-two-year-old mother hated public conflict.
She knew his sister would immediately try protecting the family.
She knew the groom would rather absorb embarrassment than watch people he loved get dragged into it.
She knew every decent instinct he had.
And apparently she intended to use all of them against him.
The businessman walked toward the dresser.
He placed a cream folder beside the mirror.
“Everything happens fast.”
“No improvising.”
The fiancée laughed.
“I’m not the one who improvises.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You’re the one who gets emotional.”
Her expression cooled.
“You’re getting paid very well.”
“Exactly.”
He tapped the folder.
“I’d like to remain paid.”
The groom moved his phone half an inch.
The carpet muffled the movement.
Neither heard.
Then the businessman said something that changed the shape of the entire plan.
“The actress wanted another thousand.”
The fiancée frowned.
“For what?”
“She thinks this is more complicated than she agreed to.”
“She already got eight.”
“She says she was told it was a staged wedding stunt.”
The fiancée laughed.
“It is staged.”
“She thought the groom knew.”
Silence.
The groom stopped breathing.
The businessman looked annoyed.
“I handled it.”
“How?”
“I told her your fiancé approved a private reputation exercise.”
The groom’s stomach turned.
So the woman who planned to accuse him publicly might not even understand that she was participating in extortion.
The fiancée shrugged.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“She’s nervous.”
“Replace her.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
The businessman stared.
“You really do think human beings are furniture.”
She smiled.
“Coming from you?”
“Fair.”
Under the bed, the groom looked at the trumpet tie clip in his palm.
His father had worn it for twenty-six years.
Every concert.
Every parent night.
Every graduation.
His father taught middle-school band in a public school where half the instruments were older than the children carrying them.
The groom grew up believing gold meant that tie clip.
Not watches.
Not cars.
Not jewelry locked behind glass.
A tiny trumpet clipped to his father’s tie while he conducted twelve-year-olds through songs nobody in the audience particularly wanted to hear.
When his father died, the groom inherited it.
Tomorrow, he had planned to wear it at his wedding.
That was why he was beneath the bed.
A small velvet box had fallen behind the nightstand earlier.
He moved the bed slightly.
The clip slid beneath the frame.
He crawled after it.
Then he heard the front door open.
He assumed his fiancée had returned alone.
He almost called out.
Then heard the businessman.
Something about the tone made him stay silent.
Now he thanked every instinct that kept his mouth closed.
The fiancée opened one of his dresser drawers.
She removed a folded shirt.
Then replaced it.
The groom watched her heels move across the hardwood.
“What are you looking for?” the businessman asked.
“The tie clip.”
“Why?”
“He was looking for it earlier.”
“And?”
“It matters to him.”
The businessman laughed.
“So?”
She did not answer immediately.
Then:
“I don’t want him thinking about his father tomorrow.”
The groom’s expression changed.
The businessman stared at her.
“That’s unusually cruel.”
She shrugged.
“His father is the reason he gets sentimental.”