After My Groom Gave Me to His Business Partner

The invitation to Caden's bachelor party arrived like a cruel joke—an ornate card delivered by a courier who waited for my response. I tossed it into the trash, but the image of gold-embossed lettering haunted me: *One last night of freedom before the merger ties me down.*

I hadn't planned to go. Until my father called.

"Zelda, I need those documents from my office," he said, his voice strained. "The Montgomery Holdings transfer papers. They're in my desk drawer."

The building would be empty on a Friday night—everyone would be at Caden's party. I could slip in, grab the papers, and leave without seeing anyone.

Or so I thought.

The elevator to the executive floor hummed softly as it climbed. I stepped out into the darkened hallway, my heels clicking against marble. The sound echoed, too loud for comfort.

Light spilled from beneath Caden's office door. Strange—he should be at his party. I approached quietly, hearing voices inside.

"—found her under the Brooklyn Bridge, you know." Caden's voice, slurred with alcohol. "Like a stray dog."

Laughter followed—his friends, their voices familiar from years of charity galas and business dinners.

"She was so pathetic," Caden continued, his words thick with liquor and mockery. "Filthy, starving. Begging for scraps."

I froze, my hand halfway to the doorknob.

"And now she's married to that retard," someone added. "Talk about trading down."

More laughter. More clinking glasses.

"Phoebe was right," Caden said, his voice dropping lower. "Zelda's like a stray dog—she'll always come back. Always begging for attention."

Something broke inside me—the last fragile thread of hope that somewhere beneath his cruelty, Caden still cared.

I backed away, tears blurring my vision. The documents could wait. Everything could wait.

---

"Zelda, darling!" Phoebe's voice dripped with false sweetness as she embraced me in the Bennett foyer. "How lovely to see you."

I stiffened at her touch, but Mrs. Bennett had insisted we maintain appearances for the charity committee meeting.

"Elijah is in the garden," I said coldly. "I'll get him for the photographs."

Phoebe's smile widened. "Don't bother. I've already seen him."

Something in her tone made my skin crawl. I watched her move through the room, chatting with guests, her fingers brushing against their purses and pockets with practiced ease.

When the police arrived twenty minutes later, I wasn't surprised.

"Mrs. Bennett," the officer said formally, "we've received a report of stolen jewelry. A necklace and earrings belonging to Miss Montgomery."

Phoebe stepped forward, her expression a perfect mask of concern. "Oh, how terrible! I'm sure Zelda would never—but perhaps we should check her things?"

My stomach knotted as they searched my purse. Nothing.

"Perhaps the gardener's shed?" Phoebe suggested innocently. "She spends so much time there with Elijah."

The officers exchanged glances. "Ma'am, we found nothing in the shed either."

Phoebe's smile faltered. "That's impossible. I—I mean, I'm sure they'll turn up."

As the police left, Elijah appeared beside me, his eyes clear and focused.

"I saw," he said quietly. "I moved them."

"What?"

He led me to a large potted plant in the corner. "She put them here." He pointed to a small hole he'd dug in the soil. "Bad lady wants to hurt you."

I stared at him, then at the hidden jewelry. "Elijah, how did you know?"

He winked—actually winked—and for a moment, I glimpsed something in his eyes that looked remarkably like intelligence.

---

The news report played on the small TV in Caden's office: a warehouse fire in Queens, three injured. I wasn't supposed to be there—I'd come to deliver final paperwork for the merger—but the screen caught my eye.

Caden stood frozen before it, his face ashen.

"Turn it off," he whispered to his assistant.

But I saw something in his expression—recognition, fear, something deeper.

That night, he called me.

"I can't sleep," he said, his voice hoarse. "Every time I close my eyes, I see flames."

I should have hung up. Instead, I listened.

"Phoebe suggested a hypnotherapist," he continued. "Someone who can help with trauma."

"Trauma?" I echoed.

"I keep seeing—" He stopped abruptly. "Nothing. It's nothing."

But it wasn't nothing. The next day, he cornered me outside the therapist's office.

"I remember something," he said, his eyes wild. "A girl in the fire. She was calling my name."

My breath caught. "What girl?"

"I don't know. She was pulling me out, dragging me across the floor." His hand moved unconsciously to his back. "I could hear her screaming my name."

"Caden—"

"And then I saw it," he interrupted, his voice breaking. "Her back was on fire. She was burning for me."

He looked at me then—really looked at me—for the first time in months.

"Why would anyone do that?" he whispered.

I turned away, unable to bear the confusion in his eyes. He still didn't remember. Didn't remember me.