My father arrived within the hour.

He didn't knock loudly.

He never did.

But when I opened the bridal suite door and he saw my torn veil and dusty dress, his expression shifted in a way I had only seen once before — the day my mother passed.

"Play it for me," he said quietly.

I played the recording.

He listened without moving.

When it ended, he sat down on the edge of the chair and was silent for a long moment.

"Mara," he finally said, "Owen's father came to me eight months ago."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"He warned me something wasn't right.

I didn't have proof, so I said nothing." His jaw tightened.

"I should have told you."

Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door.

It was Owen.

He was still in his wedding suit, smiling, holding two glasses of champagne.

He looked at my father and the smile didn't disappear — it just changed into something thinner.

"Gerald," he said smoothly.

"I didn't know you were still here."

My father stood slowly.

"I'll bet you didn't."

Owen's eyes moved to me.

Something flickered behind them — not guilt.

Calculation.

"Mara," he said carefully, "is everything okay?"

I looked at the phone in my hand.

Then I looked at him.

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"Close the door, Owen," I said.

"We need to talk."