Chapter 2 - The Aftermath of the Runaway Bride
The cancellation of a wedding was not a quiet affair. It was a slow-motion explosion that scattered debris across two families, three hundred invited guests, and a small town that fed on gossip like winter birds on seed.
By noon, the venue had been notified. The flowers—thousands of dollars worth of white roses and delicate baby’s breath—were left to wilt in the chapel’s air-conditioned quiet. Camille’s mother had taken over the phone calls, her voice alternating between furious sobbing and brittle politeness as she uninvited people who were already ironing their suits and styling their hair.
Camille herself did not speak to anyone. She went back to the house they had rented together, a charming brick cottage with a manicured front garden, and began to pack.
Not Trevor’s things. Her own.
She worked with a terrifying, mechanical efficiency. Sweaters folded into neat squares. Shoes lined up in duffel bags. Toiletries swept from the bathroom counter into a wash bag without a single pause for sentiment. When she reached the nightstand, she found a small leather-bound notebook Trevor had left behind in his haste.
She opened it, expecting to find business notes or perhaps a draft of his wedding vows.
Instead, she found financial figures. Rows and rows of numbers written in dark ink, accompanied by names she did not recognize. And at the bottom of the final page, pressed flat between the sheets, was a second document. A promissory note, stamped with a heavy, crimson seal.
It was a debt agreement. Trevor owed three hundred thousand dollars to an entity listed only as V. Moretti & Co.
Camille stared at the bold, sweeping handwriting of the signature at the bottom. Valentin Moretti.
The name sent a chill down her spine. Anyone who lived in the tri-state area knew that name, even if they only spoke it in hushed tones over dinner tables. Valentin Moretti was not a businessman in any traditional sense. He was the head of the Moretti syndicate—a man who controlled the shipping docks, the private gambling clubs, and the quiet, dangerous underbelly of the city. He was a man who did not lend money out of kindness, and he certainly did not let people vanish when they owed him three hundred thousand dollars.
Trevor had not just cheated on her. He had been drowning in gambling debts, lying to her about his Chicago trips, and using her family’s social standing as a shield to buy himself time. The Chicago woman was likely just another layer of his unraveling life—or worse, a leverage point used by someone else.
Suddenly, the front door rattled.
Camille’s head snapped up. She froze, the notebook pressed against her ribs.
"Trevor?" she called out, though she knew in her gut it wasn't him. Trevor had been too cowardly to face her in the daylight; he wouldn't come back now.
The door did not unlock with a key. It opened with a heavy, metallic thud as the brass latch gave way under sudden, immense pressure.
Two men stepped into the foyer. They were broad-shouldered, wearing tailored dark suits that looked far too expensive for ordinary muscle, and their expressions were entirely blank. They moved into the house with the cold assurance of men who had done this a hundred times before.
"Camille Hunt?" the taller one asked. His voice was deep, raspy, and stripped of all emotion.
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"Who are you?" Camille took a step back, her heel hitting the edge of her packed suitcase. "Get out of my house. I'm calling the police."
"The police don't handle Mr. Trevor’s accounts, Miss Hunt," the second man said softly. He stepped aside, turning back toward the open doorway. "And Mr. Moretti doesn't like to be kept waiting."
