“You made a very serious mistake,” I said calmly.
Carter laughed.
“No, Helen,” he replied. “You did.”
I turned away without another word.
Past the stunned guests.
Past the flower arch.
Past the photographer lowering his camera like he had just witnessed a crime scene.
Outside, the cold October wind hit my burning cheek harder than Carter’s hand had.
I reached into my purse.
Took out my phone.
And called the one man Carter Whitmore never imagined I knew.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Helen?”
“Sheriff Dalton,” I said quietly, staring through the reception hall windows. “It’s time.”
Silence.
Then his voice hardened instantly.
“He hit you?”
“Yes.”
“And demanded the property in public?”
“In front of everyone.”
“I’m on my way.”
I hung up calmly and slipped my phone back into my purse.
Thirty seconds later, the reception doors burst open behind me.
“There she is,” Carter sneered.
He marched toward me with two groomsmen trailing behind him like backup dancers in an expensive disaster.
“You think storming out makes you look dramatic?” he asked. “You look unstable.”
“Then go back inside.”
