Page 2 of Runaway Bride's Guide to Love

I feel my head starting to spin. “Excuse me?”

“The DJ called me right after the florist. He said the card you had on file is declining. Which means he doesn’t have final payment either.”

“Declined?” That can’t be right. There’s plenty of money in that account. It’s the wedding fund that Duncan and I have both been contributing to. “Did you try the credit card you have on file for backup? That’s not tied to the bank account?”

“I did. Also declined.”

This can’t be happening. That card, which is in both of our names, has a high,highfive-figure credit line. “Something has to be up. Maybe our identity was stolen and our account was drained? And they hacked our credit card too.”

“Maybe?” Whitley might say the word, but it doesn’t sound like she believes it. Honestly, neither do I. “I know this is the worst time to tell you all of this, but if they don’t get paid now, there won’t be flowers or a DJ at your wedding.”

I shake my head. “No. Thank you for telling me. I’ll go get Duncan. Maybe he knows what’s going on.”

She nods. “Okay. Let me know if I can help you in any way. I’ll call in the final payments once you get it sorted out.”

“Thank you,” I say, my mind now racing about how in the world not just one, but two, errors like this could have occurred.

It has to be a fraud thing. That’s the only thing that makes sense. There should be thousands of dollars in that account. And plenty on the credit card. Not only should it have been plenty to cover the flowers and the DJ, but we’re also using the leftover money and credit card for our honeymoon next week.

I can’t believe this is happening. Especially since these were the only two big expenses Duncan and I were taking care of for the wedding. When we told my parents we were engaged, they gave us plenty to cover everything we could want. Duncan’s eyes looked like a cartoon character when he saw the figure, but something didn’t feel right with me about not contributing at all. Plus, Duncan and I have money. I do well for myself as the head office administrator for the law firm Carter, Banks and Fairchild. It’s also the law firm where Duncan is an associate. So, I politely told my parents that we were going to pay for a few things. Those things were the DJ and the flowers, bridal party gifts, and all the other odds and ends that keep seeming to pop up when you’re planning a wedding of this size.

Here I was, trying to be an adult—and responsible and not a spoiled little rich girl—and this is what happens.

Being an adult sucks.

I walk back into the dining room, quickly adjusting my tight, white, strapless dress to make myself feel a bit more put together on the outside. I give my hair a shake and push back my shoulders, giving every impression that nothing is the matter.

Fake it till you make it, right?

I say hi to a few guests as I try not to look like I’m hurrying back to my table. I quickly take my phone out of my purse and log into the bank app.

Except I can’t.

I try again, completely convinced I have the password correct because it’s the same for everything I use, but nothing.

What the hell?

I swallow a groan as I go through the pain in the ass process of changing my password. Reluctantly, I use the password they suggest because I just need this to go quickly. Alarm bells are sounding off in my head as I finally am able to log in to the account to see my worst nightmare.

There, on the homescreen, is nothing but zeros.

Well, not all zeros. The savings account has anegativebalance. A negative balance of more than six thousand dollars.

What the hell? How did I not get an alert on this? This doesn’t make sense.

I quickly toggle to the transactions in the checking account and one large wire transaction that took the checking to zero. Over on the savings, it’s three large amounts, and one that took it to heavily overdrawn.

What the hell? I need answers.

I stand up and search around the room for Duncan, who is leaning against the bar with his best man and a few of the groomsmen. He’s laughing and having the time of his life.

At least one of us is.

“Duncan? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Not now, babe,” he says, barely making eye contact with me before turning fully to the bar where a round of shots was just placed in front of him and his groomsmen.

If this were any other night, and any other problem, I’d probably move on. I don’t like to stir the pot with Duncan. I know sometimes I can be a bit crazy and don’t think things through, so most of the time I ask myself if it’s aproblem I’m willing to die for. Most of the time that answer is no.

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