“She didn’t confront them,” Robert cut in. “She prepared. She quietly revised her will. Legally. Everything was left to us.”

I stared at him. “So Dad gets nothing. Laura gets nothing.”

A brittle laugh escaped me—sharp, unsteady.

“So this wedding, all of it—”

“They believe they’ve already won,” Robert said.

The door swung open.

“Claire?” my father called. “Are you all right in there?”

Robert folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.

“Yes,” I answered. “We’ll be out in a moment.”

The door shut again.

I swallowed. “What do we do?”

Outside, the music swelled.

The cake was about to be cut.

And my father had no idea his celebration was on the verge of becoming a reckoning.

We returned to the reception together. Dad spotted us immediately and smiled in relief.

“There you are. I was starting to worry.”

“We need to talk,” I said.

His smile faltered. “Can it wait?”

“No.”

Nearby conversations hushed. Laura went rigid.

My brother stepped forward. “Mom knew. About all of it.”

“Knew what?” Dad asked.

I lifted the envelope. “She knew about you and her sister. She knew about the child. And she knew why you stayed.”

Laura whispered his name.

“Stop.”

Dad let out a short laugh. “You’re mistaken.”

“No,” I said evenly. “You are.”

Robert went on. “She changed the will. Everything goes to us. You get nothing.”

The color drained from Dad’s face. “That’s impossible.”

“It isn’t,” I replied. “It’s already been done.”

Laura stepped away from him. “You said it was taken care of.”

I looked at both of them. “This wedding didn’t secure your future. It revealed the truth.”

We left without a goodbye.

Months later, Laura left him as well. Love, it turns out, disappears quickly when there’s nothing left to inherit.

Mom was right. She didn’t battle while she was dying. She won—quietly.

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