Chapter 8 - Whispers in the Dark
A month before the wedding.
The preparations for the Sterling-Langum wedding were the talk of international society. The event was set to take place at Richard’s private estate in the French Riviera, a breathtaking castle overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
I stood in the fitting room of a luxury bridal atelier on Fifth Avenue, surrounded by white roses and gold-framed mirrors. I was wearing a custom-made ivory lace gown with an off-the-shoulder neckline, a fitted bodice, and a long, sweeping cathedral train that caught the sunlight filtering through the high windows.
Sloan sat on the plush velvet sofa, holding a glass of champagne, weeping tears of pure delight.
"Oh my god, Daphne..." Sloan gasped, wiping her eyes with a napkin. "You look like a literal queen. Tristan Vance is probably crying himself to sleep in his tiny apartment right now!"
I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, touching the delicate lace on my sleeves. "I don't care about Tristan anymore, Slo. He feels like a lifetime ago."
"And Richard?" Sloan asked, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin. "How is the billionaire guardian-turned-fiancé treating you?"
A blush crept up my neck, warming my cheeks. "He treats me like I’m made of glass... but when he looks at me... it feels like he wants to devour me."
Sloan laughed loudly. "Girl, that man has been hopelessly in love with you for years! Everyone saw it except you! The way he watched you at your dad's charity events, the way he destroyed anyone who tried to step out of line near you... it was never just guardianship!"
Before I could answer, the fitting room door opened, and a assistant walked in carrying a large bouquet of rare black roses wrapped in red silk ribbon.
"Miss Sterling?" the assistant said nervously. "These were just delivered to the front desk for you."
I frowned slightly. Black roses?
"Is there a card?" I asked, stepping off the pedestal.
The assistant handed me a small black envelope sealed with red wax. I broke the seal and pulled out a handwritten note written in shaky, desperate handwriting:
Daphne, You think you’ve won. You think Richard Langum is your savior. Ask him about the night of October 14th, four years ago. Ask him who really funded the medical trial that killed your father. You are marrying the man who put your father in the ground. - T.V.
My breath caught in my throat. The paper slipped from my trembling fingers, fluttering to the plush carpet floor.
"Daphne?" Sloan stood up instantly, seeing the color drain from my face. "What is it? What does it say?"
I stared down at the black rose bouquet, my mind suddenly spinning into a terrifying vortex of doubt and horror.
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October 14th, four years ago...
That was the exact date my father’s experimental cancer treatment had failed, causing his sudden, fatal organ collapse.
