Chapter 4The Gown Arrived After My Funeral

Once Gia had been settled into a private VIP suite and drifted off to sleep under the mild sedatives, Harrison retreated to an adjoining room.

His personal assistant had brought a duffel bag containing his "work uniform"—a pair of faded, plaster-stained Carhartt pants and a worn flannel shirt. Harrison smeared a streak of theatrical dust across his forehead, pulled out his phone, and snapped a tired, grubby selfie.

He sent it directly to his pinned contact:

[Harrison]: Took a bad tumble on the scaffolding today, babe. Had to come to the county clinic to get patched up and bandaged. We’ll have to celebrate our anniversary tomorrow night instead. Don't worry about me, okay? Love you. 😘

The message was met with absolute silence.

Harrison frowned softly. Sammy’s heart failure had been accelerating over the past few weeks; Audrey was probably running between pediatric triage and the pharmacy, too exhausted to keep her phone in her pocket. She hadn't even opened his messages from last night.

He let out a heavy sigh.

Walking toward the elevator, he passed a young couple in the maternity ward. The husband was tenderly supporting his pregnant wife while casually carrying her smooth leather Birkin bag on his forearm.

The image stabbed at Harrison’s mind, dragging up the memory of Audrey standing in the grocery store checkout line, clutching a torn, crinkling plastic bag to carry home bruised cabbage and discounted day-old bread.

Two hours later, inside the vast private showroom of the Hayes estate, elite personal shoppers from Hermès, Chanel, and Cartier stood in an immaculate semi-circle, their white-gloved hands holding velvet trays and exotic leather trunks.

"Mr. Hayes, if Mrs. Hayes favors an understated, quiet-luxury palette, I would strongly suggest—"

"I’ll take everything," Harrison interrupted, his voice flat and commanding.

The sales director blinked in disbelief. "Sir?"

Harrison didn't look at him. "You heard me. Every bag, every piece of seasonal high jewelry, every cashmere coat in this collection. Pack it all."

The representatives swallowed their breathless excitement, bowing their heads and tapping furiously into their corporate tablets.

Harrison stood alone in the center of the grand parlor, surrounded by millions of dollars in pristine luxury, and felt a sudden, sickening knot tighten in his throat.

All of this... Audrey should have had every single piece of this three years ago.

When he had staged the fake collapse of his shell company and told her they had lost everything, she hadn't shed a single tear. Instead, she had thrown her arms around his neck, laughing softly through her exhaustion: "It doesn't matter, Harrison. We've got two hands each. You and me against the world—you’ll climb right back to the top, and I’ll be right beside you."

To make the lie convincing, he had restricted his household contributions to five hundred dollars a month.

To pay for Sammy's initial medical visits, Audrey had pawned her late mother’s heirloom gold necklace. She had sold the vintage designer bag she had saved up for through four years of college.

Harrison turned toward the glass display case beside him.

The necklace was there. The bag was there.

He had bought them back the very day she pawned them, keeping them in climate-controlled preservation, conditioned weekly by specialists.

When she saw them tomorrow, she would probably be furious with him. She would yell, cry, and pound her fists against his chest for deceiving her for so long.

And she would have every right to.

He would get down on his knees and beg for her forgiveness for as long as it took.

Harrison pulled out his phone and switched on the front-facing video camera. In his other hand, he held a rare, boxed Spider-Man collector's figurine—the one Sammy had stared at through the glass window of a high-end toy store for an hour last Christmas.

"Hey, Sammy," Harrison spoke into the lens, his voice trembling with forced, gentle cheer. "When you watch this, you’ll be all done with your big heart surgery, resting in the clean recovery room. Mommy and Daddy aren't allowed inside the sterile bubble just yet... but see what Daddy has?"

He turned the colorful box toward the camera.

"The limited-edition Spider-Man you wanted. The second you wake up and step out into the hallway, it’s all yours, buddy. Daddy knows you’re the bravest little guy in the world. Mommy and Daddy are waiting right outside the glass for you."

He pressed stop.

Outside the tall French windows, the morning sun was finally cresting the horizon.

It was time. Audrey would be heading home from the hospital right about now to shower and prepare Sammy’s pureed meals.

Harrison changed back into his bespoke three-piece tuxedo.

In the VIP clinic room, Gia woke up and watched him adjust his cuffs, her lips curling into a sneer. "My fever barely broke, Harrison. Can't you just wait until this afternoon?"

"I'm going to bring my wife home."

"I doubt Saint Audrey is sitting by the door counting the seconds."

Harrison smiled, a calm, unshakeable certainty radiating from his eyes. "Day after day... she’s waited long enough."

Gia’s jaw tightened into a bitter line.

Down in the estate’s circular driveway, a fleet of black Rolls-Royces stood gleaming in the morning light. The groomsmen were dressed to the nines, tossing silver confetti and laughing into the crisp morning air.

"Let’s go! Time to bring the billionaire's wife home!"

Confetti fluttered down across Harrison’s shoulders. He laughed—a bright, triumphant sound.

In the trunk of the lead car sat the three-tiered artisan chocolate cake he had promised her.

In his inner breast pocket rested a custom five-carat Harry Winston emerald-cut diamond ring.

In the back seat, the painstakingly repaired silk wedding gown was preserved in an archival garment case.

His heart raced with an adrenaline he hadn't felt in years as the motorcade navigated off the highway, winding deep into the dilapidated, grey outskirts of the industrial district.

He visualized the moment over and over in his head:

Audrey would probably be standing over the sputtering gas stove in that cramped, drafty kitchen.

He would push open the creaking door.

She would turn around, holding a dented spatula, her eyes widening in disbelief as she saw her grease-stained construction-worker husband standing before her in a tailored tuxedo, bearing diamonds, silk, and chocolate.

The spatula would slip from her fingers.

She would burst into tears. He would break down, too.

He could already hear her weeping, calling him an idiot, pounding on his chest: "Harrison Hayes, you absolute bastard!"

Yes, Audrey. I was a bastard.

I dragged you through hell for three years. But I swear to God, for the rest of our lives, you will never touch the dirt again.

The car stopped. Harrison leaped out, bounded up the peeling communal stairwell, and pushed open the unlocked door.

"Audrey, I'm ho—"

The artisan chocolate cake slipped from his grip, shattering against the filthy linoleum floor.

The laughter of the men behind him instantly died in their throats.