Chapter 5 - The Aftermath and the Exile
By Monday morning, the story of the Thorne wedding disaster had exploded across every major news network and tabloid in the country.
THE BRIDE WHO WALKED: THORNES IMPLODE AT ASHCOMBE GRAND. DEAD WIFE RETURNS TO HALT BILLIONAIRE’S WEDDING. FEDERAL RAID UNCOVERS DECADES OF CORRUPTION.
Imogen sat in her childhood home — a quiet, sunlit brownstone in the historic district, far away from the glass-and-steel monstrosity of Beckett’s downtown penthouse. She had packed up every single one of her belongings from Beckett’s apartment over the weekend, utilizing two federal marshals to supervise the retrieval while Beckett was being held at a local precinct for questioning regarding his father’s corporate shell companies.
She didn't look at his texts. She didn't answer his calls, which started as frantic pleas and eventually devolved into bitter, desperate voicemails about how she was ruining his life.
She was drinking black coffee at her mother's old wooden kitchen table when the doorbell rang.
Imogen opened it to find a courier holding a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed with wax. She signed for it, closed the door, and carried it to the counter.
Inside was a handwritten letter on thick, expensive stationery.
Imogen, I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't even expect you to read this. But I need you to know that I never knew. My father lied to me every single day of my life, making me believe Elena died so I wouldn't go looking for her. When she walked down that aisle, my world shattered just as much as yours did. I am facing ten years for corporate conspiracy that my father engineered behind my back, and I deserve every day of it for being so blind. I loved you, Imogen. In a world full of monsters and liars, you were the only real thing I had. — Beckett
Imogen stared at the letter for a long moment. She didn't feel anger. She didn't feel sadness. She felt a profound, untouchable pity. She folded the letter neatly, placed it back in the envelope, and tossed it straight into the recycling bin without reading the second page.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. It was an unknown number.
She swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Imogen? It’s Elena."
The older woman’s voice sounded lighter, though still laced with the jittery exhaustion of a mother adjusting to a new reality.
"Elena. How are you? How is Sarah?" Imogen asked, leaning against the counter.
"Sarah is sleeping upstairs in her own room for the first time," Elena said, and Imogen could hear the tears of relief threatening to break through her voice. "We're staying at a safe house the bureau set up while Arthur's assets are frozen. But... she asked about you this morning."
Imogen blinked, surprised. "About me?"
"She remembered your dress," Elena smiled softly through the phone. "She said you looked like an angel who came to rescue us. I wanted to call and... well, I wanted to thank you, Imogen. If you hadn't stopped the wedding, if you hadn't demanded answers right then and there... Arthur's lawyers would have buried us again by Monday."
"You don't need to thank me, Elena," Imogen said, looking out the kitchen window at the blooming hydrangeas in the backyard. "You gave that little girl her mother back. That's worth a ruined wedding any day of the week."
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"What are you going to do now?" Elena asked gently. "The press has been circling your mother's house like hawks."
"Let them circle," Imogen said, a fierce, independent spark igniting in her chest. "I have a degree in architecture that I put on hold for a man who wanted me to be a trophy wife. I think it's time I built something of my own."
