The fiancée followed.
Their voices faded.
The bedroom door closed.
The groom remained under the bed for almost two full minutes.
He did not trust silence anymore.
Finally, he crawled out.
His knees hurt.
His shirt was dusty.
His face looked different in the mirror.
Not older.
Clearer.
He looked down at the gold trumpet in his palm.
Then at the empty doorway.
His first impulse was to call his fiancée.
His second was to call the businessman.
His third was to cancel the wedding.
He did none of them.
Instead he called his sister.
She answered immediately.
“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
He sat on the edge of the bed.
“I need you to come back.”
Something in his voice changed hers.
“What happened?”
“Come alone.”
“I’m twenty minutes away.”
“Don’t call anybody.”
Pause.
“You’re scaring me.”
“I know.”
Then he added:
“And bring your laptop.”
His sister arrived in seventeen minutes.
She was two years older, an employment and commercial attorney who had spent most of their adult lives reminding him that being wealthy did not make him legally intelligent.
She entered through the garage.
He locked the door behind her.
Then handed her the phone.
“What am I listening to?”
“Everything.”
She sat.
He remained standing.
Six minutes later, she removed the earbuds.
Her face was pale.
“She said this?”
“Yes.”
“In this room?”
“Yes.”
“You were where?”
He pointed.
His sister stared beneath the bed.
Then looked at him.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You recorded them from under there?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
“Of all the ways you could discover your wedding is a financial ambush…”
He did not laugh.
She immediately softened.
“Sorry.”
He sat opposite her.
“What do I do?”
She watched him carefully.
“You want the emotional answer or the useful answer?”
“Useful.”
“Good.”
She held up the phone.
“First, stop thinking this recording is the case.”
He frowned.
“I heard them.”
“I know.”
“But there are questions about how and where recordings can be used.”
“Different laws.”
“Different contexts.”
“We do not build anything around assumptions.”
He nodded.
That sounded like his sister.
“Then what?”
“We preserve it.”
“We document when you made it.”
“We don’t edit it.”
“We don’t send it to friends.”
“We don’t post it.”
“We don’t threaten them with it.”
He nodded again.
“Second?”
“We find independent evidence.”
“Payment to the actress.”
“Fake messages.”
“Draft settlement.”
“Communications.”
“Venue coordination.”
“Anything not dependent on this audio.”
The groom looked toward the cream folder still sitting on the dresser.
His sister followed his eyes.
“What is that?”