The morning sun filtered through the sheer white curtains of our master bedroom, casting long golden geometric patterns on the parquet floor. The air was thick with the intoxicating, sweet aroma of hundreds of white roses that still filled the house, remnants of the extravagant wedding reception we had hosted the night before. Everything was perfect, almost cinematic.
I stood by the vanity mirror, watching the light dance on the new two-carat diamond wedding ring on my left hand. I twisted it slightly, marveling at its weight, its permanence. I was now Maya Carter. The thought sent a warm, fluttering sensation through my stomach.
“Do you think three swimsuits are enough for Bali, or am I underpacking?” I turned to see Ryan standing by the bed, tossing a folded linen shirt into his open leather suitcase. He was shirtless, his athletic frame bathed in the morning light, humming a cheerful jazz tune. He looked at me, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners with that boyish, handsome smile that had made me fall in love with him a year and a half ago.
He was an architect—meticulous, thoughtful, and relentlessly kind. He was my safe haven. “If we do the honeymoon right, Mr. Carter,” I teased, reaching up to wrap my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against his warm back, “you won’t be needing the swimsuits much anyway.” He laughed, a deep, resonant sound rumbling against my chest, and kissed the crown of my head. “Point taken, Mrs. Carter. My God, I love the sound of that.”
Suddenly, the sharp, jarring marimba ringtone of my cell phone shattered the quiet intimacy of the room. It sat on the nightstand, vibrating insistently against the mahogany wood. I sighed as I reluctantly pulled away. “Probably the caterer asking about the leftover champagne. Or my mother, checking to see if we survived the night.”
I picked up the phone. The caller ID displayed a local number I didn’t recognize. Frowning slightly, I slid the screen to answer. “Hello?” “Am I speaking with Maya Evans? Maya Carter?” The voice on the other end was female, clipped, and deeply professional, backed only by a sterile, echoing silence. “This is Maya,” I replied. “How can I help you?”
“This is Mrs. Delaney from the county office of vital statistics,” the woman said, her tone carrying a strict, suppressed urgency. “I apologize for calling you on a Sunday morning, Mrs. Carter, especially the day after your ceremony. But we were processing the final digital uploads of yesterday’s marriage licenses, and an anomaly flagged in our system regarding your file.”
I let out a breath and offered a polite, relieved laugh. “Oh, is that all? Did I miss a signature on the dotted line? I know things were pretty chaotic yesterday with the photographer and the family rushing us.” “It’s not a missing signature, Maya.” Mrs. Delaney dropped the ‘Mrs. Carter’. Her voice dropped an octave, the professional veneer peeling away to reveal something that sounded terrifyingly like raw concern.
“You need to come to our downtown office. Right now. I have authorization to open the back doors for you. Come alone, and do not say a single word to your husband about this call…”
(A terrifying discovery is waiting at the registry office! Click “Next Page” to continue reading…)
