Three minutes after the ceremony, my phone buzzed. Tate. “You’re fired. Consider it my gift to you.”
I stared at the screen, then showed Kieran. He read it once. His mouth tightened. Then he surprised me — he smiled. “Save that.” “Kieran, I just lost my job.” “I know.” “On our wedding day.” “I know.” He took the phone from my hand, made sure the message was saved, then handed it back. “Today belongs to us.”
For once, I listened. I put the phone on silent. We took photographs. Cut the cake. My father cried during his toast. My mother pretended she wasn’t crying while standing directly beside him. I danced with my husband. For three hours, Tate Lawson did not get another minute of my wedding.
Then my maid of honor found me near the reception patio. “Waverly.” She held out my phone. “You need to see this.” One hundred eight missed calls. Crescent. Coworkers. Clients. Project consultants. And seventeen calls from Gregory Lawson.
I opened his first voicemail. “Waverly, call me immediately.” His usual calm was gone. “Tate had no authority to terminate you.” Second voicemail: “There has been a serious misunderstanding.” Third: “The downtown submission cannot be completed.” Fourth: “We cannot locate the latest approved project package.” Then: “Please call me.”