Page 38 of The Billionaire and His Forever

We spend the next hour reminiscing about our high school days, our least and most favorite college classes, all the fabulous vacations we’re going to take in the future. I help Amanda get dressed, too, and we’re just putting our shoes on when there’s a knock on the door.

“Abbie?” I hear Esmeralda’s voice. “It’s time.”

Excitement thrums through me so hard it takes my breath away.

“You going to be okay?” Amanda asks gently as she adjusts the strap of her lacy yellow dress.

“Better than okay.” I give her an honest smile. “I’m elated. And a little scared. But mostly elated.”

“I think that’s exactly perfect.” Amanda threads her arm through mine. “Come on, let’s get you married.”

We walk down the hall together until we come to the top of the stairs, where Jude stands with her hands clasped in excitement. The sweet floral scent hits me first, and I peek down to see that the entire foyer has been decked out in a profusion of roses in warm summer colors—pale and deep pink, peach, lavender, golden and buttery yellows. Mary and Ronaldo and Cassie sit on folding chairs before an archway of cream-colored roses, where Graham stands beside the judge, waiting. For me.

He’s so handsome standing there in his suit, looking happier than I’ve ever seen him.

“Do you love it?” Jude asks, sweeping her arm to encompass the foyer below.

“I love it so much,” I tell her, pulling her in for a squeeze.

Esmeralda hands bouquets of wildflowers to Jude, me, and Amanda, and I hear violins start playing from somewhere within the house. Real ones. Live ones. Amanda gives me a side hug and whispers, “You’ve got this.”

Watching Jude—soon to be my stepdaughter—walk down the stairs first, toward Graham, is surreal. I can’t believe this is my life, I can’t believe this is my present, I can’t believe this is my future.

She gets to the end of the aisle, a creamy white runner flanked by the folding chairs, and takes her place next to Graham on one side of the arch.Then it’s Amanda’s turn to go down and take her place on the opposite side.

“Ready?” Esmeralda whispers.

All I can do is nod.

The music changes and Esmeralda gestures for me to go ahead.

With my heart in my throat, I begin the slow descent down the stairs, toward my new husband, toward my new life. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion as I soak up every feeling, every flower petal, the joy on Graham’s face.

I’ve just started down the aisle when suddenly the front door bursts open and uniformed police officers flood into the foyer. Behind them, on the porch, paparazzi in dark clothes crowd each other for the best angles, their camera flashbulbs going off like strobe lights.

I freeze, unsure what to do, and look to Graham, who appears as shocked and confused as I am. All our guests, few as they are, start murmuring. Someone with a camera darts into the house, snapping photos, and I feel my bouquet slip from my slack hands. Have they come for Graham again? Is that even possible?

“What is the meaning of this?” Graham demands.

“Abigail Montgomery?” One of the officers heads straight toward me, handcuffs at the ready. “You are hereby under arrest for the attempted murder of Natasha Ratliff.”

Chapter Sixteen

Graham

All I can do iswatch and seethe as my beautiful bride is escorted out of my house in handcuffs. Paparazzi fill the front drive, stepping on the hydrangeas to get a better view of Abbie being tucked into the back of a police car. The press is about to have a fucking field day.

Incendiary tabloid headlines are sure to come swiftly and cruelly. Abbie will be on the front page of every single magazine and celebrity gossip website—yet again—except this time she’ll be in a wedding dress and that fiery red lipstick. This was supposed to be one of the best days of my life, but instead it has spiraled into a complete and utter shitshow. What in bloody hell is going on?

Esmeralda comes up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. I know she means well, but I shrug her off with a scowl as the cops clear out. They made it abundantly clear they weren’t talking to me as soon as they entered my home, and no amount of heckling them made any difference.There is no point in putting up any more of a fight right here, right now. Because I know better.

Causing a scene, particularly with so many cameras around, is a death sentence. The tabloids will spin the story even more than they did when I was arrested. Is there any safe move for me? Not really. I’ll be pegged as emotionless for not interfering, but I’d be labeled much worse if I caused a scene.

Anger and confusion pump their lead into my bloodstream. Abbie guilty of attempted murder? Are the police so desperate for leads they’re just grabbing anyone? I still don’t understand why there’s an ongoing investigation at all. Natasha overdosed. Fact. She’s in a coma due to her own actions. Fact. Neither Abbie nor I went near Natasha that night. Fact, fact, fact.

How can this possibly be happening?

The police cars clear out, but the paps are slower to move. I don’t know if they got any clear shots of me, but I keep our few guests and my daughter as far back from the windows as possible. Everyone convenes in the kitchen, talking in low, worried voices. Jude sits on the counter, tears streaming down her face as Mary tries to soothe her.

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