She expected the familiar embarrassment to arrive, the urge to apologize for making the moment uncomfortable.
Instead, she felt something quieter.
Relief.
Emma pointed at Clare’s notebook.
“Is that your castle?”
Her father closed his eyes briefly.
“Emma.”
“What?”
Clare looked at the notebook.
The list was hidden again between the pages.
“No,” she said.
“That’s just work.
Sort of.”
Emma considered this answer.
“Did the dragon take your castle?”
Clare’s fingers tightened around the tissue.
The question should have been ridiculous.
Instead, she heard Marcus again.
She saw him at the kitchen island, hands clasped, speaking with that careful tone people used when they wanted credit for being honest after months of lying.
There was someone else.
Six months.
She saw the wedding folder on the counter behind him.
The seating chart.
The samples from the florist.
A strip of ivory ribbon from a favor box she had spent an entire Saturday choosing.
She remembered asking, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Marcus had looked exhausted rather than ashamed.
“Because I knew you’d make it complicated.”
“We’re supposed to get married in three months.
It is complicated.”
“This is what I mean, Clare.
Everything becomes a project with you.”
She had stared at him.
“You had an affair for six months.”
“I know what I did.”
“Do you?”
He stood then, frustrated.
“She saw me.
That’s the difference.
She actually saw me.
You were never there anymore.”
Clare had carried that sentence for four weeks like evidence against herself.
Now she looked at Emma.
“I thought somebody took it,” Clare said slowly.
“My castle.”
Emma leaned closer.
“Did they?”
Clare opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Emma’s father gave his daughter a look that clearly meant enough questions.
But Clare was no longer bothered by them.
She opened the notebook.
The cancellation list stared back at her.
Venue.
Photographer.
Florist.
