“Won’t she be angry?”
Noah’s jaw tightened.
“That is no longer your concern.”
He offered his arm.
Margaret accepted it.
Together, they walked toward the house.
Behind them, Claire called his name.
Noah did not turn around.
Inside the mansion, the air smelled of polished wood and fresh gardenias.
The wedding coordinator, a middle-aged woman named Lucia, hurried forward with a stack of towels.
“I’ve prepared a private room,” she said softly.
Noah nodded his thanks.
He guided Margaret into a sitting room overlooking the garden.
A fire burned in the marble fireplace despite the mild spring weather.
Margaret sat on the edge of a velvet sofa while Lucia brought a warm blanket and tea.
Noah knelt beside her.
“Mom, why didn’t you call me?”
Margaret gave him a weary smile.
“I tried.”
He frowned.
“When?”
“Several times.”
“My number hasn’t changed.”
She looked into her cup.
“I know.”
Something in her tone made him uneasy.
“Tell me what happened.”
Margaret remained silent for a moment.
Then she reached into her bag and withdrew a folded envelope.
The paper was wrinkled and slightly damp.
