I Died At Her Royal Wedding Chapter 2

When I walked into the apartment, Kat was sitting on our secondhand sofa. She didn't look like a construction worker anymore. She looked like a queen surveying a peasant. She beckoned me with a flick of her wrist.

"Sit down, Nate. We need to talk."

I walked over, but I didn't sit. As I stood near her, I could smell it—the lingering scent of Tyler’s heavy cologne on her neck. It made my skin crawl.

The fact that she wasn't even trying to apologize, that she sat there with such casual indifference after being caught in a five-year lie, made a hot, jagged rage flare in my chest.

I recoiled, stepping back as if she were something venomous. "You’ve been lying to me for five years, Kat. Five years of 'struggling' together, five years of me working double shifts so you could 'rest.' And all you have to say is 'we need to talk'?"

Her dark eyes, usually so soft, turned flat and hard.

"And what do you want me to say?" She kicked off her heels and leaned back, crossing her legs. "Don't overplay your hand, Nate Miller."

I felt the floor shift beneath me. This Kat was a stranger. This arrogant, entitled creature was the polar opposite of the warm, supportive woman I’d loved. And yet, the face was the same.

"Why?" I choked out, my eyes stinging. I felt small. I felt pathetic. "You’re a Montgomery. You’re the heir to a fortune. Why did you watch me lose my finger? Why didn't you help me?"

She let out a short, dry chuckle and stood up. She walked toward me, placing her hands on my shoulders. Her touch felt like ice.

"Because the Kat you were with was a girl on a construction site," she said, her voice dripping with a terrifying kind of logic. "She didn't have fifty thousand dollars. And Nate... if you really loved me, you wouldn't be questioning the money. Unless, of course, you’re only interested in the inheritance?"

Slap.

The sound echoed through the small room, sharp as a gunshot. The air turned frigid.

My breath hitched, my vision blurring with tears of pure fury. "I'm interested in the money? Kat, look me in the eye and say that again. Look at the man who sold his blood and his time for you!"

Kat’s head stayed turned to the side, her jaw tight. Slowly, she looked back at me, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

"Calm down, Nate."

I shook my head, stumbling back. "I can't be calm! Do you think this is a joke? While you were sipping hundred-dollar vintages at the Sovereign, were you laughing at me? Was my love just a punchline for your rich friends?"

Kat’s patience snapped. She shoved me back and headed for the door. "Talk to me when you’ve stopped being hysterical."

She paused at the threshold, looking back at me with a chilling, clinical gaze.

"If you want, I can keep you. You’d be a very comfortable mistress, Nate. Think about it."

The door slammed with a force that shook the walls. Then, silence.

I sat on the floor for a long time, a hollow laugh escaping my throat.

Searching for the truth is easy when you have a name. I found Tyler Preston’s Instagram. The top post was a photo of their marriage certificate—filed in New York a year ago.

I stumbled into our bedroom and opened the small floor safe. I pulled out two documents. They were symbolic "marriage certificates" from a trip we took to a remote village in Ireland two years ago.

She had held my face that night, the stars reflecting in her eyes. “In this village, Nate, the old traditions say a vow is forever. There is no such thing as divorce here. I brought you here to tell you that we are bound for eternity.”

I finally understood. She didn't want to marry me in the States because she was already married. The trip to Ireland, the "forever vow"—it was all a smokescreen to keep me compliant, to give me the illusion of commitment without the legal reality.

A bitter, jagged laugh escaped me.

The stress of the revelation triggered a familiar, searing pain in my wrist. An old injury from when I’d shielded her from a falling pallet on a job site years ago. It had never healed properly because I couldn't afford the physical therapy.

I pulled out my phone and texted her: The old injury is flaring up. It’s bad, Kat. I can barely breathe.

In less than thirty minutes, she was back. Her expression was dark, her movements hurried. She grabbed my arm. "Get in the car. We’re going to the clinic."

My heart jumped. Was there a spark of the old Kat left? "Why the sudden concern?"

She didn't look at me as she dragged me toward the door. "You can't be a mess right now. Not with Tyler around. I need you healthy enough to stand upright and not look like a charity case. We’re going to get you a steroid shot to suppress the pain. You are not going to ruin things by falling apart in public."

She looked at me, a flicker of something—guilt? Pity?—crossing her face. "Be a good boy, Nate. I’ll make it up to you later."

The coldness that washed over me was absolute. "No... Kat, the doctor said if I keep suppressing the inflammation with drugs, I’ll lose the use of the hand entirely. It needs rest, not a mask."

I tried to pull away. "My hand, it's—"

"Enough!" Kat snapped, her voice echoing in the hallway. "Nate Miller, you don't have the luxury of choice anymore. You’re coming with me."