Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
McCullough and I just got back from New York City!
Our dresses are magic—fitted bodices, flowing trains. I feel like a princess every time I put mine on.
I’m so thankful Mom let us take the plane alone and didn’t insist on coming. Instead, she called Christian—her designer—and told him to take care of us.
I huff a soft breath through my nose.
That sounds like her.
I could tell McCullough was worried about paying for her gown, but Mom—like always—handled it before it could become a problem. She wanted us to focus on the fun, not the cost.
McCullough’s face after the fitting was priceless when Christian told her the dress had already been paid for. Fifteen thousand dollars—and that doesn’t even include accessories.
I found a vintage Prada. Apparently some actress wore it to the Oscars in the ’90s, but I didn’t recognize her. Mom gave me a twenty-thousand-dollar budget, but how do you put a price on vintage?
The alterations alone pushed it over, thanks to my size-zero waist—but honestly? Worth every penny.
I can practically hear her voice—light, breathless, delighted.
Before everything got complicated.
McCullough had sticker shock the entire weekend. Cabs, dinners, Broadway tickets—everything made her do a double take.
At first it annoyed me.
A faint, broken smile pulls at my lips.
But the more the city overwhelmed her, the more I loved watching it happen.
I feel so lucky to have her. She’s the only person I know who’s uncomfortable with wealth in a way that feels… real. Refreshing.
With her, I get to be normal.
I think she sees me—the real me—not the bank account everyone else seems obsessed with.
She might be the truest friend I’ll ever have.
My vision blurs.
I close the journal, pressing it to my chest as a quiet sob works its way free.
Forty-eight hours.
That’s all it’s been.
Forty-eight hours since she vanished.
And already, there’s a hollow space inside me—wide, aching, impossible to fill.
I inhale slowly, forcing the air deep into my lungs. This matters. As much as it hurts, I have to keep going.
At some point, I’ll probably have to hand these journals over to investigators. But so far, there’s nothing concrete. Nothing they could use.
Just Whitney. Her voice. Her life.
I open the journal again.
All the women in my family were debutantes. My dad escorted my mom to hers, and look at them—they got their happily ever after.
I want that.
I want it for both of us.
McCullough and I are going to meet our future husbands at the ball. Just like a real fairytale.
I mean—who wouldn’t fall in love with us in those gowns?
We’re going to own that room. The other girls won’t even stand a chance.
My chest tightens.
I close the journal again, more firmly this time.
Whitney always believed in the fairytale. Always believed love would save her. And look how that ended.
A slow, bitter realization settles into my bones.
Her knight in shining armor wasn’t a savior. He was a villain.
I think back to her engagement—how fast it all happened. How swept up she was in the fantasy of it.
The wedding. The life. The future.
Everything moved so quickly it barely left room for doubt.
My mind drifts to the first time I met Phillip.
We went on a double date—some oceanside restaurant with soft lighting and overpriced wine.
And I’ll admit it. He charmed me. Some men just know how to do that. Say the right things. Smile at the right moments. Make you feel like you’re part of something polished and important.
Whitney had been glowing that night—listing off his credentials like they were proof of something deeper.
Yale.
Family money.
Citrus empire.
Homes in Palm Beach, Martha’s Vineyard, the South of France.
Perfect on paper.
But paper lies.
The question I can’t stop circling now is—who is he when no one’s watching?