The Day Scarlett Moretti Died

At four in the afternoon, a line of black wedding cars pulled up outside the estate.

Adrian stepped out first in a custom black suit, tall and immaculate, the silver DeLuca crest pinned to his chest.

Vivian followed beside him in the gown that should have been mine, her face glowing with badly hidden excitement.

Adrian had chosen this estate himself. A stone villa overlooking the Hudson, large enough to impress old money and expensive enough to make half of Manhattan jealous.

But the moment he looked up, something felt wrong.

There was no music.

No staff waiting at the entrance.

No florist rushing in and out. No wedding planner with a clipboard. No voices. No movement.

The entire estate stood in a silence so deep it felt deliberate.

And from where he stood at the bottom of the steps, Adrian could already see black fabric hanging inside the front hall through the half-open doors.

White lilies crowded the entrance.

Not bridal arrangements.

Funeral flowers.

His jaw tightened.

Vivian looked at the doors, then at him. “Maybe Scarlett’s throwing a fit because you made her wait. You know how dramatic women get when they want attention.”

Adrian shot her a cold look.

“Be quiet.”

He walked up the steps slowly this time.

The front doors stood open just enough for him to see farther inside.

Black ribbon wrapped the banisters.

Black draping hung over the staircase.

The foyer that should have been filled with soft light and champagne silk looked like a private wake.

Adrian stopped dead.

A hard, ugly feeling rose in his chest.

“Scarlett,” he called.

No answer.

“Scarlett!”

Still nothing.

Vivian came up behind him, uneasy now. “What is this? Is she trying to scare you?”

Adrian did not answer.

His eyes moved over every detail at the entrance, then to the second-floor windows.

They were dressed in black too.

No one had decorated a wedding like this.

This was mourning.

This was farewell.

Then the second-floor bedroom window exploded outward.

Glass burst into the air.

A blast of heat followed, then fire.

Flames tore through the curtains and rolled across the upper floor in seconds. Thick black smoke poured out over the stone facade.

Vivian screamed.

Adrian lurched forward on instinct, but the heat drove him back before he could reach the door.

“Scarlett!” His voice cracked this time. “Scarlett!”

He stood frozen at the foot of the steps, the heat pressing against his face, the smoke curling higher into the late afternoon sky.

For the first time in years, he looked like a man who had no idea what to do next.

Behind him, Vivian grabbed at his arm, her voice trembling. “Adrian, what is this? What did she do?”

He shook her off without even looking at her.

His eyes stayed on the fire.

On the house where she should have been waiting for him.

On the place that looked less like a wedding and more like a burial.

Far above the river, in the back seat of a car headed for the airport, I watched the smoke rising in the distance until the estate became nothing more than a dark shape against the sky.

I opened my encrypted mail one last time.

The scheduled delivery was set.

The photos.

The recording.

The report.

Soon, all of it would reach Adrian.

But not yet.

Not here.

Not while I was still close enough to be found.

My assistant turned slightly in the front seat. “Ms. Vale, your flight boards in an hour. Should I shut down the old number?”

I looked out at the fading line of New York and placed my hand over my stomach.

“Yes,” I said. “Turn it off.”

Scarlett Moretti died at her wedding.

Stephanie Vale took her unborn child and her future with her.

He deserved neither.