I Was About to Marry My Mistress, 30 Years Younger Than Me.
“I need to speak to her face to face, Rebecca,” I replied firmly.
I unlocked the heavy deadbolt and opened the front door wide.
Florence was still standing on the porch, her long wedding veil still pinned into her styled hair.
Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
For the very first time, she looked utterly exhausted and defeated.
She did not look like a scheming villain or a stunning bride.