Forty Minutes Before the Wedding

Chapter 01 - Forty Minutes Before the Wedding

Jonathan Moretti saw Meline Donnelly through rain-streaked glass forty minutes before he was supposed to marry another woman.

At first, his mind refused her.

A woman on Broad Street.

Dark hair tied badly.

Gray cardigan.

Cheap bouquet in one hand.

The other hand under a belly so large there could be no mistaking what it meant.

Traffic crept forward.

Vivien Bianke sat beside him in white lace, holding roses across her lap.

Jonathan wore black.

His white boutonnière suddenly felt absurd.

Meline turned her face.

Jonathan stopped breathing.

“Meline…”

Vivien looked at him.

“You know her?”

He did not answer.

Outside, Meline adjusted the flower buckets beside her feet.

Cold October rain darkened the sidewalk around her shoes.

Eight months.

Exactly eight months since Jonathan had last seen her.

Eight months since he had stood in his father’s old study and told security:

“Get her out of Providence. I don’t care where she goes.”

He had not meant kidnap her.

He had not meant hurt her.

He had meant:

Cancel her apartment.

Terminate her contract.

Remove her building access.

Stop every Moretti company from hiring her again.

Make betrayal expensive.

At the time, he had believed betrayal deserved a price.

Now Meline looked at the moving car.

Their eyes met.

Her fingers closed around the flower stems.

Jonathan stared at her stomach.

Vivien followed his gaze.

Her face changed slowly.

Not jealousy.

Calculation.

“Jonathan… who is she?”

He answered without looking at his bride.

“Someone I was told was gone.”

“Gone where?”

He almost laughed.

That was the terrible part.

He did not know.

He had never asked.

Traffic light changed.

The car began moving.

Meline grew smaller in the window.

Jonathan’s hand tightened against his knee.

“Eight months.”

Vivien’s voice lowered.

“Eight months since what?”

“Since she disappeared.”

The word came out wrong.

Disappeared made it sound like weather.

Meline had not disappeared.

Jonathan had ordered doors closed until leaving became the only practical direction.

Vivien looked out at the pregnant woman.

“And the baby?”

Jonathan lowered his eyes.

No answer.

Then he leaned forward.

“Stop the car.”

The driver glanced in the mirror.

“Sir, St. Matthew’s is—”

“Stop.”

The limousine pulled to the curb half a block ahead.

Vivien remained still.

Jonathan opened the door.

Cold air entered.

She said:

“If you get out of this car now, there are two hundred people waiting.”

He looked at her.

Not threatening.

Not choosing yet.

Just finally hearing the sentence underneath the wedding.

“There is also a woman outside who vanished from my life eight months ago carrying a child that might be mine.”

Vivien went pale.

“Might?”

Jonathan stared.

That word had told her something.

“You knew she was pregnant?”

“No.”

Too fast.

He closed the door again.

Not because he had changed his mind.

Because he wanted the truth before public theater.

“Vivien.”

She looked away.

“Did you know Meline was in Providence?”

“No.”

“Did you know she was alive?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

There.

Jonathan felt his pulse slow.

His most dangerous state had always been quiet.

“How?”

Vivien’s eyes filled.

Not tears yet.

“Jonathan, this is not the place.”

“You have forty seconds before I get out.”

She gripped her bouquet.

“Your aunt Sofia told me.”

Jonathan went still.

Sofia Moretti.

His mother’s younger sister.

Former judge.

The one person in the family who had openly objected when Jonathan expelled Meline.

“When?”

“Six weeks ago.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That Meline was alive.”

“Pregnant?”

Vivien shook her head.

“No.”

Jonathan watched her.

He believed that part.

Then:

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Vivien’s jaw trembled.

“Because we were six weeks from the wedding and your aunt said Meline wanted nothing from you.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is mine.”

Then she looked at him.

“You had already decided Meline betrayed you. I did not think one sentence from me would reverse eight months of rage.”

Jonathan opened the door again.

Vivien said:

“If you walk away now, the wedding is over.”

He stopped.

Looked back.

“What did you think would happen if I married you and found out later?”

Her face collapsed slightly.

“I thought maybe nothing.”

That was worse than malice.

Hope built from avoidance.

Jonathan stepped into the rain.

The security car behind them stopped immediately.

He waved the guard back.

No crowd.

No scene.

Then walked toward Meline.

She saw him.

Did not run.

Did not smile.

Did not cry.

She simply stood there, one hand beneath her belly.

Jonathan stopped three feet away.

“Meline.”

Her eyes moved over the tuxedo.

The boutonnière.

The limousine.

Then to Vivien, still seated inside in a wedding dress.

“Congratulations.”

The word hurt more than accusation.

Jonathan looked at her stomach.

“How far along?”

“Thirty-six weeks.”

He calculated.

Eight months ago.

Approximately.

His voice changed.

“Is the baby mine?”

Meline looked at him for so long the rain became audible.

Then she said:

“You lost the right to make that your first question.”

Jonathan said nothing.

Correct.

She picked up a flower bucket.

He reached automatically.

“Don’t.”

He stopped.

She moved it herself.

Slow.

Careful.

Then:

“What happened to you?”

Meline laughed once.

“You happened.”

He flinched.

Good.

Then she added:

“And I happened too.”

That surprised him.

Before he could ask, Vivien opened the limousine door.

White dress against gray rain.

She stayed under the awning of the car.

Did not approach.

Meline saw her.

Vivien saw Meline.

No villain pose.

No triumphant ex-lover.

Just three adults standing inside the consequences of things none of them had fully said.

Then Meline looked at Jonathan.

“If you want answers, come tomorrow at ten.”

“Where?”

She pointed to a flower shop across the street.

Small.

Narrow.

Sign:

DONNELLY & DAUGHTER FLORALS.

Jonathan’s eyes returned to her stomach.

“Daughter?”

Meline looked almost amused.

“Old sign.”

Then:

“Tomorrow. Not tonight.”

“My wedding is in thirty-five minutes.”

“I know.”

“How?”

Meline glanced at his tuxedo.

“Providence has newspapers.”

Fair.

Then she picked up the last flower bucket.

Jonathan asked:

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

Then after two steps:

“Yes.”

She handed him one bucket.

Not forgiveness.

Weight.

He carried it across the sidewalk.

At the shop door, Meline said:

“Leave it there.”

He did.

Then:

“Tomorrow.”

She entered.

Locked the door.

Jonathan stood under the awning.

Behind him, Vivien remained beside the limousine.

His bride.

Maybe not anymore.

He returned slowly.

Vivien asked:

“Are we going to the church?”

Jonathan looked at her.

“No.”

She closed her eyes.

The bouquet lowered.

No scream.

No slap.

Just a woman absorbing the end of something she had spent two years building.

Then:

“Are you going to her?”

“Not tonight.”

“To the church?”

“No.”

“Then where?”

Jonathan removed the white boutonnière from his lapel.

Held it.

“Home.”

Vivien looked toward the flower shop.

Then said:

“She came to me once.”

Jonathan stopped.

“What?”

Vivien’s voice became barely audible.

“Three months ago.”

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The wedding had already ended.

Now the truth was only beginning.