Two days before our wedding, I stood barefoot in the catering kitchen of a beautiful North Carolina estate, still wearing the white dress from our rehearsal dinner, and heard the man I was supposed to marry explain why he had chosen me.

his estate suite.

His mother had insisted on tradition.

Separate rooms before marriage.

For once, I appreciated her interference.

At 12:17 a.m., I sat on my hotel bed and called Nora Ellis.

Nora had been my friend since I was twenty-four. After thirty-two years as a paralegal, she’d retired and now approached paperwork with the enthusiasm other women reserved for crime documentaries.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“If somebody isn’t dead, they better be getting divorced.”

“We’re not married yet.”

Silence.

Then her tone changed.

“Talk.”

I repeated everything I’d overheard.

Every word.

Without crying.

When I finished, Nora asked, “Is your name on Ryan’s house?”

“He said we’d add it after the wedding.”

“Wedding accounts?”

“We have one joint savings account.”

“Can you access it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you checked it recently?”