It wasn’t just Claire.
If I just canceled the wedding, my so-called fiancée would cry to her friends about a fiancé with cold feet. Isla would nod, pat her hand, and tell everyone I’d never really been ready after Rachel. They’d move on and try the same scheme on someone else.
I looked at Claire in the dark. At the small, peaceful shape of her under our comforter. At the woman who’d promised my six-year-old she could call her “Mom” someday.
They’d move on.
But since she wished the girls harm, I realized one thing: I couldn’t ignore it.
Her birthday was in two weeks. She’d been talking about it for a month. Claire had invited 60 guests. Her mother would be in the front row. A cake big enough to feed a wedding.
A stage, basically. With a projector already rented.
I turned onto my back, stared at the ceiling, and made two decisions before the sun came up.
