Daniel Whitfield seemed like the answer to every prayer I never voiced aloud. Charming, ambitious, with a deep voice and a smile that made my knees weak. We met at a charity gala for medical research. He was the perfect gentleman—sending flowers, remembering my father’s favorite hymns, listening intently when I spoke about expanding Hale Medical’s outreach clinics. Six months later, he proposed on the same rooftop where Daddy used to take me stargazing.
The red flags were there, subtle at first. Gloria’s overly sweet comments about “protecting family assets.” Daniel’s casual questions about my trust fund and board voting rights. But love—or what I thought was love—made me rationalize everything. I was tired of being alone. I wanted a family. I wanted to believe someone could love me, not just my last name and my money.
The wedding was spectacular. Five hundred guests in a grand ballroom, crystal chandeliers, a live orchestra, and enough flowers to fill a greenhouse. I walked down the aisle in a custom lace gown that made me feel like royalty. Daniel looked devastating in his navy tuxedo. When he kissed me, the crowd cheered. I thought my heart would burst.
Now, lying under the bed in the opulent honeymoon suite of the estate, I realized the kiss had been Judas.
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Above me, their conversation continued.
“Is she asleep yet?” Gloria asked, her silver gown brushing the carpet near my hiding spot.
“Almost,” Daniel replied with a small laugh. “The champagne did its job. I doubled the dose like you said.”
“Are you positive she drank it?”
“She finished the glass. She’ll be out cold any minute.”
I had barely touched my lips to that champagne. The moment Daniel turned away to answer a toast from his best man, I poured most of it into a nearby potted plant. Old habits from college parties where I never let my drink out of sight. Tonight, that small instinct saved me.
Daniel walked toward the vanity. I heard a drawer slide open.
