Boston Mother Cancels Twenty Two Million Dollar Wedding Gift After Morning Betrayal
As the car began to roll down the brick incline toward Beacon Street, I reached up and flipped down the small sun visor. I adjusted the rectangular glass until I could see my own eyes, then looked at the straight, silver edge of my new hair.
The car turned toward the harbor, the gray water visible between the buildings. My hand went to my purse, where the key card log details remained folded in my pocket.
I watched the silver reflection in the glass as the driver pulled away.
The church doors were heavy, oak and iron, shutting out the harbor breeze.
Avery Whitman was waiting just inside the stone vestibule of St. Andrew’s, his black leather briefcase resting against his knee.
He stepped forward as I entered, his eyes immediately lifting to my hairline.
I stood straight and touched my collarbone, keeping my chin level.
My fingers brushed the soft lace edge of the silver wig, making sure the lace lay flat against my forehead.
“You look exceptionally well, Beatrice,” Avery said, his slow, deep voice echoing off the stone arches.
