« I want to fight, » I said in a hoarse voice. « I want to sue her. »
« It’s a righteous anger, » Eleanor replied. « But we won’t press charges. Margaret controls the judges in this district. She owns the media. If we confront her in the open, she wins. »
« So what do we do? »
“We disappear,” Eleanor replied. “We wait. And when the time is right, we will let the truth come out in a way that she cannot control, manipulate, or buy.”
So, I died.
Annabelle, the bride, ceased to exist. I left town that night, with only the clothes Eleanor had given me. I deleted my social media accounts. I changed my phone number.
Eleanor found me a place to stay in a small town, three states away: Millbrook. A town of red brick and tranquil rivers. I became Anna. I found a job at the public library, shelving books in a smell of yellowed paper and dust that masked the smell of my sorrow.
My belly grew. The baby kicked, turned around, indifferent to the scandal of its conception. I went to my medical appointments alone. I learned I was expecting a boy. I cried in my car after leaving the doctor’s office, because Jonathan had always said he dreamed of a son who would carry the Windsor name.
I gave birth on a Tuesday morning in February, while it was snowing outside, eight months after my aborted wedding day. The nurse asked me if I wanted to call the father.
« No, » I replied. « He’s not here. »
But when they placed my son on my chest, and his tiny fingers closed around mine with a force that surprised me, I took a picture. I sent it to Eleanor with two words: *He’s here.*
She replied immediately: *Test tomorrow. Certified laboratory. Triple verification.*
The results confirmed exactly what I already knew. My son — Oliver — was Jonathan’s child. Probability of paternity: 99.999%.
Eleanor immediately wanted to pass the file on to the press.
« No, » I said, looking at Oliver sleeping in his crib. « Not yet. Let Margaret believe she’s won. Let Jonathan live in silence. When the blow comes, I want it to be fatal. »
So, I raised Oliver alone.
I watched him grow from a wrinkled newborn to a gurgling baby, then to a curious little boy. He had Jonathan’s dark curls. His laugh. The way he tilted his head when he was thinking.
I spoke to her about her father, but cautiously. I told her that her dad was far away. That he was lost.
Five years passed.
Oliver started kindergarten. He was kind, incredibly intelligent, and brave. For his fifth birthday, he blew out the candles on a dinosaur cake and made a wish.
« I wanted a dad, » he confided in me later, his chin smeared with chocolate. « But only a kind one. Tommy at school says some dads yell. I don’t want a dad who yells. »
That evening, after Oliver had fallen asleep, I called Eleanor.
« I’m ready, » I said. « I want to come back. »
« Are you sure? » asked Eleanor. « You’ve built yourself a peaceful life, Anna. »
“Peace is not justice,” I replied. “Oliver deserves to know who he is. And Jonathan… Jonathan deserves to know what he threw away.”
Eleanor remained silent for a long moment. The line crackled.
« There’s something you need to know, » she said finally, her voice dropping a tone. « Jonathan is getting married. »
The words pierced me. Even after five years, the pain was sharp, cutting.
» When ? «
« Next month. Margaret has chosen the bride herself this time. Rebecca Sterling. The daughter of a senator. It will be a huge reception. Five hundred guests. »
» Or ? «
« In the same cathedral. »
I let out a bitter, hoarse laugh.
« Obviously. She’s rewriting history. She wants to erase me. »
« This could be our chance, Anna, » Eleanor said softly. « If you have the courage. »
I looked at Oliver’s bedroom door, decorated with star stickers that he loved. I thought about the lie that had defined his life even before he was born.
« We’ll be there, » I said. « But we’re not just going to attend the wedding. We’re going to invite ourselves to the reception. »
We arrived in town the day before the wedding.
I had changed in five years. The sweet, hopeful young woman who had stood at the altar was gone. In her place stood a woman sharpened by single motherhood and loneliness. My hair was cut into a clean, structured bob. My body was stronger. I had traded my ethereal pastels for an architecturally structured black dress that whispered of money and danger.
But the real weapon was Oliver.
He looked exactly like Jonathan at the same age. The resemblance wasn’t just striking; it was a genetic mirror image.
We skipped the ceremony. I couldn’t bear to see Jonathan saying his vows to someone else in the same place where he’d abandoned me. We waited for the reception.
She was staying at Windsor Castle, a vast manor house with perfectly manicured gardens. Security was tight—Margaret wanted to leave nothing to chance—but Eleanor had contacts. We didn’t climb any fences; we went through the main gate, Eleanor showing off a VIP pass she had « obtained » from a donor.
I held Oliver’s hand tightly. He was wearing a small navy blue suit that I had bought for the occasion. He looked small, but determined.
« Do you remember what we said? » I whispered.
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