Chapter 3 - The Daughter's Choice
I killed the engine immediately and pushed open the driver's side door.
Emily sprinted the last ten yards, her white tulle wedding dress bunched up in her hands, her heels clicking frantically against the stones. She threw herself against the side of the truck, chest heaving, her eyes wild with a mixture of panic and fierce resolve.
"Dad!" she gasped, catching her breath. "Dad, wait. Don't leave yet."
I stepped down from the truck, gently grabbing her by the shoulders to steady her. The heavy scent of gardenia perfume and expensive champagne surrounded her, but her hands were ice-cold. "What are you doing out here, Em? You're supposed to be cutting the cake with your husband."
Emily let out a harsh, bitter laugh, shaking her head. "My husband is currently screaming at his father in the groom's suite, and Richard is threatening to call security because half the guests are whispering about what you said."
"I only told the truth," I said mildly.
"I know you did," Emily looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes again. "And that's what terrifies me. Dad... Chase spent the entire car ride here talking about how generous his family was for letting you attend. He made me promise not to 'embarrass' them by talking about our farm or your background. I thought... God, Dad, I thought he was just arrogant. But tonight, when he called you a beggar..." She swallowed hard, her voice breaking. "I saw how he looked at you. How they all looked at you. And I realized I married a carbon copy of Richard."
My heart clenched. I reached up, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead. "You didn't know, Em. People show you who they are when they think they have the upper hand. You found out on your wedding day instead of ten years down the road. That's a blessing, even if it hurts right now."
"I want an annulment," she whispered.
The words hung in the cool night air, absolute and unyielding.
I stared at my daughter, seeing the quiet strength she had inherited from her mother shining through the grief. She hadn't broken. She had bent, snapped back, and found her footing.
"Are you sure about that?" I asked gently. "Once we pull that trigger, there's no going back. The Whitmores will make your life a nightmare."
"Let them try," Emily said, her chin lifting with a familiar defiance. "Chase spent the last ten minutes telling me that if I don't go back inside and apologize to his father for your 'disrespect,' he's going to reevaluate our marriage. He actually gave me an ultimatum, Dad. On our wedding day."
A cold, hard fury settled deep in my chest. Chase hadn't just insulted me; he was trying to break my daughter into submission.
"Well," I said softly, opening the passenger door of my truck and gesturing for her to hop in. "Good thing you won't have to worry about his evaluation much longer."
Emily blinked, her tears pausing. "What do you mean?"
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"Get in," I said, sliding back behind the steering wheel. "We're going home. And on Monday morning, your husband's family is going to find out what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you—right before that hand crushes you."
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