Chapter 3 - THE TICKET IN THE SAFE
Two hundred and fifty guests turned their heads simultaneously, craning their necks toward the dark velvet curtains at the back of the Plaza ballroom.
My heart hammered so violently against my ribs I thought my chest would crack.
Mia buried her face into my neck. “Mommy, I wanna go home. It’s scary here.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. I was terrified too.
Alexander dropped Vanessa’s arms as if her skin burned him. He marched down the center aisle, his expensive tuxedo cutting a sharp silhouette against the white floral arrangements.
“Who is back there?!” Alexander roared.
Security guards rushed to the curtains, pulling the heavy fabric aside.
Nothing.
The alcove was empty. A side door leading to the hotel kitchens swung gently on its hinges, the only sign that someone had just been there.
Alexander turned back to his bride. The veins in his neck were pulsing.
“Who paid you, Vanessa?” he demanded, storming back to the head table. “Who killed my father? It was a car accident! His brakes failed on a slick road. Who told you otherwise?”
Vanessa collapsed into a white satin chair, her massive gown pooling around her like a deflated cloud. The wine stain at the hem looked like fresh blood under the bright lights.
“I can’t say,” Vanessa sobbed, wrapping her arms around herself. “He’ll ruin me, Alexander. He promised he would destroy my family if I ever breathed a word.”
“You are already ruined,” Alexander said coldly.
He unclipped the diamond boutonniere from his lapel and dropped it onto the glass-covered floor.
“The wedding is over,” Alexander announced to the silent, staring crowd. “Everyone, get out. Now.”
There was a frantic shuffling as New York’s elite scrambled to grab their coats and purses. No one wanted to be in the crosshairs of a billionaire’s wrath.
Within minutes, the massive ballroom was empty, leaving only me, Mia, Alexander, Aunt Margaret, and a sobbing Vanessa.
Margaret walked over to me. Her silver hair caught the light, and despite her age, she possessed an undeniable strength.
“Olivia,” Margaret said softly, her eyes tracing the features of my face. “You have Edward’s jawline. And Elizabeth’s eyes. I can’t believe you’ve been struggling right here in the city all this time.”
“I tried to contact the family when my mother died,” I admitted, my voice shaking. “Six years ago. When she had the… the heart attack. I was twenty. I had just found out I was pregnant with Mia. I called the estate. I wrote letters.”
Alexander turned toward me, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I never received any letters.”
“I know,” I said bitterly. “A lawyer sent me a cease-and-desist order. He threatened to call child services and take my baby away if I ever contacted the Whitmore family again.”
Alexander’s face went pale. “What lawyer?”
“I don't remember his name. He wore a heavy gold ring on his pinky finger.”
Margaret gasped, her hand flying to her pearl necklace. “Richard.”
Alexander looked at his aunt. “Uncle Richard? Why would Richard threaten her?”
“Because your uncle has always been a parasite,” Margaret snapped, her aristocratic poise finally breaking. “He was always jealous of Edward. When Edward died, Richard tried to take over the company, but Edward’s will left everything to you.”
Vanessa let out a pathetic, wet laugh from her chair.
“You’re all so stupid,” Vanessa sneered, wiping mascara from her cheeks. “You think this is just about a company?”
Alexander stepped toward her. “Speak.”
Vanessa looked at me with pure, unadulterated venom. “I grew up in Queens, Olivia. Three blocks away from you. My name used to be Valerie. Remember me now?”
I stared at her heavily contoured face. Under the expensive treatments and rhinoplasty, I saw the ghost of a teenager who used to sit on the fire escape across from our cramped apartment.
“Valerie,” I whispered in disbelief. “You told everyone you moved to California.”
“I moved to Manhattan,” Vanessa spat. “I changed my name. I reinvented myself. But before I did, I used to watch your mother. I used to watch her cry over that stupid silver bracelet. And then, six years ago, a man in a very expensive suit came to your apartment.”
My blood ran cold.
“I remember him,” I breathed. “I was in the kitchen. He gave me twenty dollars to go buy ice cream. When I came back… my mother was clutching her chest. The ambulance was already there.”
Vanessa smiled, a sick, twisted expression.
“He didn't just give you ice cream money, Olivia,” Vanessa said. “He paid me ten thousand dollars to clean out your mother’s bedroom before the cops arrived. He told me to find the bracelet and a wooden box.”
“And you did it?” I asked, disgusted. “While my mother was dying?”
“I wanted out of the slums!” Vanessa screamed. “I found the bracelet. But I also found something else. A piece of paper.”
Alexander grabbed her arm. “What paper?”
Vanessa reached into her ruined silk purse. Her hand trembled as she pulled out a faded, yellowed rectangle of heavy cardstock.
She threw it onto the floor at Alexander’s feet.
It was an old, vintage train ticket.
Alexander picked it up. His eyes scanned the text, and I watched the color completely drain from his face.
“This is a one-way ticket to Chicago,” Alexander whispered. “Dated twenty-seven years ago. The exact day Elizabeth left the estate.”
Margaret stepped closer, peering at the ticket. “Edward bought her a ticket to leave? I don't understand. Edward loved her. He was planning to leave his wife for her.”
“Edward didn't buy it,” Vanessa said, wiping her nose. “Look at the billing name at the bottom.”
Alexander read the small print.
His voice shook when he spoke.
“Purchased by… Eleanor Whitmore.”
Margaret stumbled backward, catching herself on the edge of the cake table.
“Eleanor?” I asked, confused. “Who is Eleanor?”
Alexander looked at me, his eyes filled with a grief so profound it made my heart ache.
“Eleanor,” Alexander said, his voice cracking. “Is my mother. She died ten years ago.”
Mia suddenly tugged on my uniform. She pointed a tiny finger toward the back of the room.
“Mommy,” Mia said brightly. “The man from the picture is here.”
I froze.
We all turned toward the velvet curtains.
A man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a dark, expensive suit, holding a silver-handled cane. He looked exactly like the photograph of Edward Whitmore, just slightly older.
“Hello, Alexander,” the man said, smiling a terrifying, cold smile. “It’s a shame to ruin such a beautiful wedding.”
It wasn't Edward.
May you like
It was Richard.
And dangling from his left hand was a crumpled child’s drawing. A drawing I made when I was six years old.
