Wedding Over Wife's Life

My phone buzzes again just as I'm adjusting Ophelia's veil, the delicate lace catching the afternoon light streaming through the hotel suite windows. The vibration against my chest feels like an accusation, insistent and unwelcome.

"Jackson, you should probably—" Ophelia starts, but I'm already pulling the device from my pocket with barely contained irritation.

Elizabeth's name glows on the screen again, and something cold settles in my stomach. She never calls twice in a row unless she's really committed to whatever performance she's staging today.

"This better be important," I mutter, swiping to answer. "Elizabeth, I told you I'm—"

"Please don't hang up." Her voice is different this time—raw, desperate in a way that makes me pause. "Jackson, I need you to listen. There's a man here who wants to talk to you."

Before I can respond, the phone crackles and a rough male voice cuts through the line. "Jackson Ryan?"

I frown, glancing at Ophelia who's watching me with growing concern. "Who is this?"

"Someone who's been waiting to meet you." The voice is calm, controlled, with an edge that raises the hair on my arms. "Your wife and daughter are with me at Westfield Mall. We're having a lovely conversation about you."

"Look, I don't know what kind of sick joke this is—"

"No joke, Mr. Ryan. Your wife is sitting right here, and she's been very cooperative so far. Haven't you, Elizabeth?"

There's a muffled sound, like someone being pushed, and then Elizabeth's voice comes back on the line, shaky and thin. "Jackson, please. You have to come. They have guns, and Dakota is so scared—"

"Enough!" The word explodes from me, and Ophelia flinches in her chair. I turn away from her, lowering my voice but not the venom in it. "I don't know how far you're willing to take this charade, Elizabeth, but I'm not playing along."

The male voice returns, and this time there's amusement in it. "She said you wouldn't believe her. Smart woman. But maybe this will convince you."

A new sound comes through the phone—metallic, sharp, like scissors closing. Then Elizabeth's scream pierces through the speaker, raw and animal, the kind of sound that bypasses rational thought and goes straight to the primitive brain.

"Mom!" Dakota's voice, high and terrified, cuts through Elizabeth's agony.

I nearly drop the phone, my hands suddenly slick with sweat. "What—what was that?"

"That was your wife's ring finger," the man says conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Pretty little wedding ring you gave her. Shame about all the blood on it now."

Elizabeth's sobs fill the line, broken and desperate, punctuated by Dakota's crying. The sounds are too real, too visceral to be fake. No one could manufacture that kind of pain.

"You're lying," I whisper, but the words feel hollow even as I speak them.

"Am I? Would you like me to describe the jewelry store we're in? Or maybe you'd prefer I tell you about the brooch your wife was buying when we found her? Had your initials engraved on it. Sweet gesture, really."

My legs go weak. Elizabeth had mentioned the mall, said they were shopping. The brooch—she'd been buying me a gift. For my birthday next week.

"Jackson," Elizabeth's voice comes back, thick with pain and tears. "Please. I know you hate me, I know you want to be with her, but Dakota doesn't deserve this. She's just a child."

"I don't—" I start, but the words stick in my throat.

"You have thirty minutes," the man interrupts. "Westfield Mall, jewelry store on the second floor. Come alone, or I start on the little girl next. And Mr. Ryan? Your wife wanted me to tell you something."

There's a pause, then Elizabeth's voice, barely a whisper: "The brooch was for your birthday. I wanted to surprise you."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone, my hand trembling. Behind me, Ophelia's voice seems to come from very far away.

"Jackson? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I turn to face her, this woman I've chosen over my family, this woman whose wedding I've prioritized over my wife's desperate pleas for help. She looks so fragile in her wedding dress, so beautiful and dying.

"I have to go," I hear myself say.

"What? Jackson, the ceremony starts in an hour—"

"I'm busy with more important matters," I mutter, the words automatic, even as Elizabeth's screams echo in my memory. But my feet don't move toward the door. They stay planted on the hotel carpet, anchored by months of devotion to the woman in white.

The phone in my hand feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.