“He told Margaret you were only here because you were desperate for a family handout,” she said.

“I don’t need his money, Clare,” I said.

“I know you don’t,” she said softly.

“You never did.”

Clare walked back to the vanity table and picked up the thick kraft paper envelope David had delivered that morning.

She held it against her chest for a moment before sliding it into the white leather binder that held her wedding vows and toast notes.

“He thinks I’m going to stand up at eight o’clock and give a speech thanking him for paying for my life,” Clare said.