Her voice softened, like she was explaining something to a child who couldn’t grasp their numbers yet. “Miss Smith, I can’t change what the records say. Mr. Jones is married but not to you. He’s been legally married for three years to a woman named Jasmine Rivera. Does that name mean anything to you?”
My knees nearly buckled. Jasmine. Of course I knew her. How could I not? She was my best friend. So, how come?
I stumbled away from the counter, mumbling something that probably sounded like thank you but tasted like acid in my mouth.
I don’t even remember how I got home. One moment I was standing there with my world split open like rotten fruit, the next I was climbing the marble stairs of Scott’s estate on autopilot, my palms still sticky from gripping the steering wheel too hard.
Three years ago, I was supposed to marry Scott in that white church on the hill. My mother had picked the flowers. Jasmine had helped me choose the dress. And then the news came: Jasmine had been pushed from a rooftop by one of Scott’s enemies who’d wanted to hurt him and they thought she was me. They thought she was the woman he truly loved. But she wasn’t supposed to be there. It was supposed to be me.