When she finished, she stared at those two sentences until they stopped feeling like wounds and started looking like evidence.
Then she called the front desk.
“This is Elena Pierce in Suite 12,” she said, her voice calm. “I need to request copies of all charges made to my room, all transportation records arranged through the resort, and confirmation of the reservation details. Please email them to me tonight.”
“Of course, Mrs. Pierce,” the woman said.
Mrs. Pierce.
The name made Elena’s stomach turn.
Next, she called her assistant, Mia.
It was after midnight, but Mia answered on the second ring.
“Tell me you’re calling because the honeymoon is amazing,” Mia mumbled.
Elena closed her eyes.
“Mia, I need you awake.”
The sleep vanished from Mia’s voice.
“What happened?”
Elena told her everything.
Not with screaming. Not with dramatic pauses. She told it the way a surgeon might describe damage: cleanly, precisely, because if she let emotion take over, she might not survive the night.
When she finished, Mia whispered, “I’m going to kill him.”
“No,” Elena said. “You’re going to help me bury his version of the story before he tells it.”
There was a pause.
Then Mia said, “Tell me what you need.”
Elena took a breath.
“First, pull the prenup.”
“Elena…”
“Pull it.”
Mia was quiet for a second too long.
Elena’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“Elena, I didn’t want to bring this up before the wedding because you were happy.”
