Chapter Three #2
“I trusted him.” The words come out in a broken whisper. “We were planning our future together, Nick. A house, kids…” I press my palms against my eyes. “How could I have been so blind?”
“Because you always want to see the best in people.” Nick’s arm wraps around my shoulders. “Even when they don’t deserve it.”
The simple gesture of comfort breaks what’s left of my composure. I turn into his embrace, burying my face against his shoulder as quiet sobs shake my frame. I rest there for a moment, until I feel him stiffen.
“I’m going to have a word with our ‘friend,’” he mutters grimly.
“Nick, don’t!” I grab his arm as he turns, my fingers digging into the fabric of his suit. “I don’t want you causing trouble.”
“Let go, Stella.” His muscles tense under my grip. “Someone needs to teach that piece of—”
“No. I’ll handle it myself.” I yank him back, positioning myself between him and the exit. “I’m a big girl, Nick.”
Nick’s jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. “So, we just let him get away with it? Let him laugh about how he played you?”
“Lower your voice,” I plead, noticing Mrs. Abercrombie’s head turning our way. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“It’s never the time or place with you.” He tries to shake me off, but I hold firm. “Always worried about appearances, about what people will think—”
“Because I have responsibilities!” The words come out sharper than planned, drawing more stares. I force my voice down. “Unlike you, I can’t just blow up my life whenever I feel like it.”
A flash of hurt crosses his face, and I immediately regret the jab. But before I can apologize, Maria arrives.
“It’s time, Stella,” she says, glancing down at her watch. It’s a subtle nudge to get the show on the road. I should have been up on the podium by now.
“On my way.” I nod, then look back at my brother. “Just promise me you won’t do anything.” I fix him with a hard stare.
He deflates a little. “Fine. But I don’t like it.”
If he says anything more, I don’t hear it, because I’m already at the stairs to the stage.
I step up to the podium, adjusting the microphone with shaking fingers. The sea of expectant faces blurs before me until I blink hard, forcing myself to focus on the notecards in my hands.
“Good evening, distinguished guests.” My voice comes out clear and professional — a small miracle. “Thank you all for joining us tonight to support Children’s Hope Foundation.”
Nick hovers near the back of the room, his forehead creased with concern. I look away, channeling my energy into the familiar rhythm of the speech.
“Every child deserves a chance to dream big,” I continue, gesturing to the artwork displayed around us. “These pieces were created by children in our program — children fighting battles no one their age should face. Yet look at the joy, the hope, the vibrant life in each brushstroke.”
The words flow easier now as I describe specific cases — little Sarah who painted dolphins during her chemotherapy sessions, Marcus who discovered his talent for sculpture while recovering from heart surgery. I’ve practiced this speech countless times for other events, and muscle memory takes over.
“Your generosity tonight doesn’t just fund medical treatments. It gives these children something equally vital — a reason to smile, to create, to believe in tomorrow.”
My voice catches slightly on the word “believe,” and I see Nick shift uncomfortably. I power through, describing the foundation’s achievements this past year, our goals for expansion, the lives we’ve touched.
“Together, we can turn their darkest days into masterpieces of hope.”
Applause fills the room as I conclude. I manage a gracious smile, though exhaustion seeps into my bones. The emotional toll of the evening crashes over me as I step down from the podium, my professional mask slipping just slightly.
Nick takes a step forward, but I shake my head slightly. Not now. I can’t handle his sympathy, not when I’m barely holding myself together.
The donors rise for the silent auction portion of the evening, and I retreat to the edge of the stage, feeling drained but satisfied that at least this part of the night went according to plan.
I slip away from the crowd, finding refuge in a dim service corridor. The muffled sounds of the auction fade behind me as I lean against the cool wall, letting out a shaky breath.
“You’re thinking about them again, aren’t you?” Boyana’s voice echoes in my head.
“Mom and Dad?” I close my eyes. “How they kept secrets too?”
“And now here you go again. Always trusting the wrong people.”
“That’s not fair.” I wrap my arms around myself. “They were protecting us.”
“Were they? Or were they just protecting themselves?” Boyana’s tone turns sharp. “Like Gianni was protecting himself by not telling you about his other woman.”
“It’s different.”
“Is it? Lies are lies, sestrichka. Whether they’re about a secret sister or a secret lover.”
The fluorescent light above me flickers, casting strange shadows on the service corridor’s walls. “At least Mom and Dad loved us.”
“Did they? They lied about me. About why we left Russia. About everything.”
“Stop it.” I press my palms against my temples. “They did their best.”
“Just like you did your best to believe Gianni’s excuses? The late nights at work? The mysterious business trips?”
“Ms. Fermont?” A staff member’s voice breaks through my spiral. “We need your approval on the final auction arrangements.”
I straighten up, smoothing down my skirt. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”
“Run away,” Boyana whispers. “That’s what we Fermonts do best, isn’t it?”
“Not anymore,” I mutter, squaring my shoulders as I turn toward the main hall. “Not this time.”
I move through the final auction arrangements on autopilot, checking off items on my tablet. My fingers tap across the screen with practiced efficiency while my mind spins with darker calculations.
“The Carters’ bid on the Aspen getaway needs processing,” Maria says, hovering at my elbow.
“Right.” I swipe through the forms, my signature flowing across dotted lines. Each stroke reminds me of the contracts Gianni and I signed to secure venues and wedding specialists. Was he laughing at me all along?
The thought stops my pen mid-stroke. Nick’s involvement in Gianni’s business dealings suddenly takes on a sinister edge. All those late-night meetings my brother claimed were about investment opportunities…
“The catering staff needs direction on breakdown timing,” another coordinator interrupts.
“Schedule it for midnight.” My voice stays steady even as my stomach churns. “Make sure they document everything for the invoice.”
Invoices. Like the ones Nick showed me last month, claiming Gianni was helping him start a legitimate import business. Was any of it real? Or just another smokescreen for whatever they’re actually doing?
Mrs. Abercrombie catches my eye across the room, raising her champagne glass in appreciation. I return her gesture with a smooth smile, the same one I’ve worn in countless photos with Gianni at events like this.
“Interim numbers for the silent auction are ready for review,” Maria says.
I nod, scanning spreadsheets while memories surface of Gianni’s laptop screen, quickly closed whenever I entered his office. The way he’d brush off my questions about certain business partners. How he always handled Nick’s paperwork personally.
My fingers tighten around the tablet. The numbers blur as questions pile up behind my professional mask. How deep does this deception go? What else don’t I know about the man I almost married?
One thing’s certain — I need answers. And I know exactly where to start looking for them.