Chapter 7 - THREE MORE WEDDINGS
I thought I had misheard him.
"Say that again."
"Brielle told me three couples had put down deposits for events at your property."
"How much?"
"I don't know."
"When?"
"One in September, one in October, one next spring."
I closed my eyes.
My garden had become a product on a market I did not know existed.
"Who are the couples?"
"I don't know all the names."
"What do you know?"
He hesitated.
"One is the daughter of a real estate developer from Charlotte."
"Brielle met her at a bridal show."
"The October couple owns restaurants."
"The spring booking came through a planner."
Naomi started typing.
"Did you ever attend meetings with these people?"
"One dinner."
"Where?"
"Your parents' house."
I looked at Naomi.
"My parents knew."
Owen went quiet.
"I assumed they did."
"Why?"
"Your father talked about parking plans."
That hurt more than the forged signature.
My father had sat across from me four nights earlier and asked why I was making Brielle's wedding difficult.
He had known she was not planning only one wedding.
He had known my home had been promised to strangers.
He had still tried to make me feel unreasonable for saying no.
"Did my mother know?"
"She talked about using the upstairs rooms as bridal suites."
I sat down again.
For a few seconds, I could not speak.
Naomi took over.
"Owen, do you have documents?"
"Probably."
"Emails, proposals, calendars, invoices?"
"Brielle used our shared wedding folder for some things."
"Do not delete anything."
"I won't."
"Do not warn anyone that you're preserving it."
"Understood."
"And do not access accounts that are solely Brielle's."
"I won't."
When the call ended, I walked to the sink and ran cold water over my hands.
Naomi let me stand there without speaking.
Finally, I said, "They were going to turn my house into a business."
"They tried to create the appearance that they could."
"My parents helped."
"It appears they were involved."
"Why?"
"We don't know yet."
I turned off the water.
"I know Brielle."
"She wants things."
"She assumes other people will rearrange themselves until she gets them."
"But this is different."
Naomi nodded.
"Yes."
"This took planning."
"Yes."
"Money."
"Yes."
"Documents."
"Yes."
"And my parents."
Naomi closed her laptop.
"That is the part you may need to stop explaining away."
I did not answer.
At 2:04, the doorbell rang.
The new camera showed my aunt Celia at the front gate.
She was holding a casserole dish.
I almost laughed.
"What now?"
Naomi checked the camera.
"Do you want to see her?"
"No."
Then Aunt Celia held a paper up to the lens.
The words were backward, but I could read them.
PLEASE CALL ME.
I hesitated.
Celia was my mother's older sister.
They spoke nearly every day.
If anyone knew what my mother had been thinking, it might be her.
"I'll call," I said.
Celia answered before the first ring finished.
"Delaney."
She sounded as if she had been crying.
"Why are you at my gate?"
"Because your mother won't listen to me."
"About what?"
"About stopping this."
My heart began pounding.
"Stopping what?"
"Can I come in?"
I looked at Naomi.
She shook her head once.
Not yet.
"Talk to me on the phone."
Celia sat in her car.
"I didn't know about the signatures."
"What did you know?"
"That Brielle wanted to use your house for events."
"And you said nothing."
"I thought you knew."
The sentence had become a family anthem.
I thought you knew.
I thought you agreed.
I thought everyone understood.
All roads led back to assumptions that benefited Brielle.
"Why did you think I knew?"
"Your mother said you were difficult about details but had agreed in principle."
"I never agreed."
"I believe you now."
"Why now?"
Celia looked through the windshield toward my house.
"Because your mother called me last night."
"What did she say?"
"She was afraid you would check the county records."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Why?"
"I asked her the same thing."
"And?"
Celia swallowed.
"She said your father had gone too far."
I felt pressure behind my eyes.
"Too far with what?"
"She wouldn't tell me."
"Celia."
"She just kept saying they were trying to protect the family."
"From what?"
"I don't know."
I did not believe that she knew nothing.
But I believed she knew less than my mother.
"Did she mention the option agreement?"
Celia's silence answered before she did.
"She mentioned a paper that was supposed to make sure the property stayed in the family."
I closed my eyes.
"My property is already in the family."
"I told her that."
"No."
My voice sharpened.
"My property is mine."
"Yes."
"That is the point everyone keeps skipping."
Celia began crying.
"I know."
I wanted to feel sympathy.
Instead, I felt tired.
"What else?"
"There was money."
"How much?"
"I don't know."
"From whom?"
"Deposits, I think."
"For the weddings?"
"Maybe."
She wiped her eyes.
"Your father invested in Brielle's company."
That was new.
"How much?"
"He took money out of retirement."
"How much, Celia?"
"I heard your mother say three hundred thousand."
Naomi stopped typing.
I felt my stomach drop.
Three hundred thousand dollars was not parental help with a wedding.
It was capital.
"When?"
"Earlier this year."
"Did he tell my mother?"
"Not at first."
That explained something.
Not enough.
But something.
If my father had invested heavily in a business built around my property, then my refusal was not merely embarrassing Brielle.
It was threatening his money.
"Why would he invest in a company that had no right to use my house?"
Celia looked miserable.
"Because he believed you would eventually agree."
I laughed.
"No."
"What?"
"He believed they could make me agree."
Neither of us spoke.
Celia finally asked if she could leave the casserole by the gate.
I told her no.
That was not cruelty.
I simply did not want anything from my family entering my house that day.
Not even food.
After she drove away, Naomi received an email from one of the event companies.
It contained a brochure.
The brochure was professionally designed.
WHITCOMB GARDENS.
PRIVATE SOUTHERN LUXURY.
EXCLUSIVE RIVERFRONT EVENTS.
The cover photograph showed my house at sunset.
I had taken that photograph myself.
It had been on my private social media account.
Inside were photographs of the garden, porch, library, and upstairs guest suite.
Some images could have come from my social media.
Others could not.
One showed the inside of my office.
Another showed the view from my bedroom balcony.
They had been taken during the unauthorized visits.
Then I reached the pricing page.
Venue rental started at thirty-five thousand dollars.
Full-property weekend packages started at seventy-five thousand.
At the bottom was a note.
FOUNDING SEASON DISCOUNT AVAILABLE FOR 2026 EVENTS.
My house had not been promised to three couples.
Naomi asked Mara to identify every prospective client who had toured the property.
By evening, Mara had compiled eleven names.
Eleven.
Three had signed contracts.
Four had requested proposals.
Two had scheduled second visits.
One had asked about a holiday party.
One luxury cosmetics company had inquired about a product launch.
The scale stunned me.
I had imagined Brielle making one reckless promise and then lying harder to protect it.
Instead, she had built a sales pipeline.
The brochure included package names.
The Magnolia Weekend.
The River Oak Ceremony.
The Heritage House Experience.
Heritage House.
I read that phrase several times.
Brielle had turned my family's last name into a brand without asking anyone whose assets made the brand possible.
The Magnolia Weekend included Friday rehearsal dinner, Saturday ceremony and reception, Sunday brunch, and "exclusive overnight use of owner suites."
"Owner suites," I said.
"That's my bedroom."
Mara looked horrified.
"I was told there was a private wing you wouldn't use during event weekends."
"I live here."
"I know that now."
Again.
That phrase.
I know that now.
Every professional had been given a version of me designed to keep me out of the process.
I was busy.
Private.
Difficult.
Traveling.
Uninterested in details.
Happy to let family handle things.
The fictional Delaney was incredibly convenient.
She never attended meetings.
She never questioned contracts.
She never minded strangers sleeping in her bedroom.
She existed only to own the expensive thing everyone else wanted to monetize.
Mara showed us a client questionnaire Brielle had completed.
Under "Owner involvement," Brielle had checked LIMITED.
Under "Decision maker," she had written BRIELLE PRICE / RICHARD WHITCOMB.
Under "Known restrictions," she had written NONE BEYOND HISTORIC LANDSCAPING.
The house was not historically protected.
The phrase made the property sound prestigious while avoiding the fact that zoning and private residential use might complicate commercial events.
"Did anyone ask for proof of commercial use?" Naomi asked.
Mara nodded.
"Twice."
"And?"
"We received a letter saying counsel had reviewed it."
"Whose counsel?"
Mara searched her email.
The letterhead belonged to a law office I had never used.
The signature at the bottom was illegible.
Naomi called the number.
Disconnected.
She searched the firm name.
No active law practice appeared under it.
The address was a mailbox store in Mount Pleasant.
Another layer.
Another prop.
I felt less like I was uncovering lies than walking through rooms in a building constructed entirely from them.
Then Mara showed us the client deposit schedule.
The three signed weddings had generated one hundred ninety-five thousand dollars in deposits.
None of it had come to me.
More importantly, most of it was already spent.
Marketing.
Office rent.
Vendor retainers.
Brielle's salary.
My father's investment had not simply funded a future business.
It had been used to support the appearance of a business already operating.
It had been advertised to the public.
And beneath the contact information was a line that made Naomi whisper a curse.
Property Director: Richard Whitcomb.
May you like
My father.
