Near the service entrance stood Lena.
She wasn’t crying now.
She was watching me.
Waiting.
I gave her the smallest nod.
Derek pulled me against his chest.
“There she is,” he murmured. “Good girl.”
I smiled.
Not because he had won.
Because beneath a tiny pearl button sewn into the neckline of my dress was a miniature audio recorder.
And inside Lena’s purse was a sealed envelope containing photographs, medical records, bank statements, and a signed document Derek had barely bothered to read.
Our prenuptial agreement.
More specifically, the domestic-abuse clause his attorney had laughed about.
One verified assault after marriage would trigger immediate financial separation, eliminate his claim to my premarital assets, and protect the company shares he believed he was marrying into.
Derek thought he had just humiliated his wife.
Instead, he had created witnesses.
Two hundred of them.
I walked calmly toward the bridal suite.
Derek followed.
“Where are you going?”
“To clean my face.”
“We’re doing speeches.”
“You can start without me.”
His smile vanished.
He grabbed my arm.
Hard.
Several guests noticed.
Perfect.
