Part 2: The Wife Nobody Mentioned
That afternoon, the unfamiliar number messaged me again.
I know you visited the attorney.
Please don’t meet Brandon alone.
I stared at the screen.
Then replied:
Who are you?
Three typing dots appeared.
Vanished.
Then returned.
Finally, a response arrived.
My name is Eden Harris.
I work at Brianna’s salon.
I was there Friday evening.
I called right away.
She answered on the first ring.
“Naomi?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry about your mother.”
“How did you get that recording?”
“I was helping Brianna create promotional content for the salon. She wanted behind-the-scenes footage of the wedding preparations.”
“So they knew you were filming?”
“At first. Then they forgot I was nearby.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why did you send it?”
Eden hesitated.
“Because I overheard what they planned to do.”
“What exactly?”
Silence followed.
Then she whispered:
“Brianna didn’t accidentally ruin your mother’s hair.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Explain.”
“Brandon called her Friday afternoon. He complained that your mother was making you hard to influence.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“What?”
“He said Miriam constantly encouraged you to question things. He wanted her distracted and upset during the wedding.”
I felt sick.
“Brianna promised to handle it,” Eden went on.
“She figured ruining your mother’s hair would embarrass her enough to keep her away from the ceremony.”
I stared blankly ahead.
Mom had been deliberately humiliated.
Not because Brianna lacked experience.
Not because of an unfortunate mistake.
But because Brandon wanted her out of the way.
“Why?” I whispered.
Eden’s voice trembled.
“I think they wanted you signing documents after the ceremony. Brianna kept talking about keeping ‘the old woman’ away from you.”
My hands felt cold.
“And the recording?”
“Brianna wanted promotional clips for social media. I was reviewing the footage before uploading it when I noticed their conversation. I saved a copy before she deleted it from our shared folder.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you warn me sooner?”
Eden began to cry.
“Because Brianna threatened my job. I desperately need that income. My mother is ill, and I help cover our rent.”
My anger softened.
“Eden, listen to me. You made the right decision.”
“No, I didn’t. I should have stepped in.”
“You weren’t responsible for cutting my mother’s hair.”
“But I knew something was wrong.”
I remembered Brandon defending Brianna.
Waylon shoving Mom aside.
Charles demanding that I apologize.
Every one of them had acted as though Brianna’s reputation mattered more than our well-being.
“There’s something else,” Eden whispered.
“What is it?”
“I saw documents in Brianna’s office.”
“What documents?”
“I’m not sure. But both Brandon’s name and hers were on them.”
“Business records?”
“Maybe. But something about them was unusual.”
I waited.
“She keeps a photograph of a little girl in her office. The child looks about two years old. Brianna tells everyone she’s her niece.”
I frowned.
“And?”
Eden lowered her voice.
“During a video call, I heard that little girl call Brandon ‘Daddy.’”
My breath caught.
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
For several seconds, I couldn’t react.
Brandon had repeatedly told me how desperately he wanted children.
He’d gotten emotional whenever we talked about raising a family.
Once, he’d told me:
“I can’t wait to become a father.”
Now I was carrying his baby.
And he might already have another child.
“Eden,” I said carefully, “please forward everything you have to my attorney.”
“I promise.”
“And take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
Before hanging up, she hesitated.
“Naomi?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a reason Brianna is so comfortable around Brandon’s parents.”
My stomach tightened.
“What reason?”
“I don’t know everything. But last Christmas, I overheard Mrs. Prescott say something odd to Brianna.”
“What did she say?”
Eden paused.
Then whispered:
“She called Brianna the daughter she’d always wanted.”
I hadn’t told June about my pregnancy.
I hadn’t even told Mom.
I’d imagined announcing it so differently.
A tiny pair of baby shoes wrapped in silver paper.
A card reading:
Our greatest adventure begins now.
I’d pictured Brandon opening the gift after our reception, maybe beside the fountain where we’d taken our engagement photos.
He would laugh.
Then get emotional.
Then pull me into a tight embrace.
That was the future I’d envisioned.
Instead, I was sitting in an attorney’s office, uncovering evidence of another woman, and possibly another child.
The next morning, I woke up nauseated.
Mom found me sitting on the bathroom floor.
“Naomi?”
I wiped my face.
“I’m alright.”
She knelt beside me.
“Sweetheart, you’ve hardly eaten in two days.”
I wanted to tell her everything.
But when I tried to speak, the words wouldn’t come.
She watched me quietly.
Then her expression softened.
“Are you expecting a baby?”
I burst into tears.
She understood immediately.
Mom wrapped her arms around me.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I’m ten weeks pregnant.”
She held me tighter.
“Does Brandon know?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
We stayed together on the bathroom floor for several moments.
Then I whispered:
“I’m scared, Mom.”
“I understand.”
“What if he tries to take my baby away?”
Mom gently lifted my chin.
“Then we’ll get proper legal guidance and make sure you’re both protected.”
“What if my child grows up resenting me for leaving their father?”
“Then someday, you’ll explain your decision in a way your child can understand.”
I wiped away my tears.
“What would I say?”
Mom gave a sad smile.
“That loving someone never means accepting a relationship that harms you.”
I leaned against her shoulder.
She gently stroked my hair.
That small gesture nearly overwhelmed me.
Her own cherished hair had been left uneven and damaged.
Yet she was still comforting me.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you ever regret having me?”
She pulled back at once.
“Never.”
“But you sacrificed so much.”
Mom shook her head.
“I gave up certain things. That doesn’t mean I regret you.”
I knew how hard life had become after my father died when I was young.
Mom had worked endless hours sewing wedding gowns, school uniforms, and clothing alterations.
We’d never had much money.
But our home had always felt welcoming.
There had always been fresh sheets, homemade soup, and someone waiting when I came home from school.
“You were the greatest blessing of my life,” Mom said.
“Nothing could ever compare.”
My tears fell faster.
Then she said something I would always remember.
“You don’t need to figure out your entire future today. Just decide what will keep you safe right now.”
That afternoon, I went to my prenatal appointment.
My doctor studied the ultrasound.
The baby’s heartbeat was strong.
Everything seemed to be developing normally.
Watching that tiny flutter on the monitor, I felt something change within me.
My baby was real.
Not merely an idea.
Not some distant dream.
A tiny, growing life that depended entirely on me.
When the nurse handed me the ultrasound picture, I held it with extraordinary care.
Outside the clinic, I sat in my car for twenty minutes.
Then I called June.
“There’s something important I need to tell you.”
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said:
“Naomi, being pregnant doesn’t give Brandon control over your life or your inheritance. We’ll review your legal options separately from the property fraud investigation.”
I exhaled slowly.
“What should I do?”
“Keep records of any threats. Don’t meet him privately. And never let his family’s intimidation dictate your choices.”
“Alright.”
June paused.
“There’s another development.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
“We’ve identified the registered agent for Briar Development Partners.”
“And?”
“The business was set up through several entities connected to Charles Prescott.”
I closed my eyes.
“That figures.”
“But another individual appears in the ownership records.”
“Who?”
June’s voice turned serious.
“Brianna Collins.”
Three days after our canceled wedding, Brandon showed up outside my apartment.
I hadn’t asked him to come.
Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table when someone knocked.
Then I heard him.
“Naomi! Open the door!”
Mom went still.
I walked to the entrance but kept it locked.
“Go home, Brandon.”
“We need to talk.”
“Contact my lawyer.”
“This isn’t something attorneys should be involved in!”
I nearly laughed.
He’d apparently forged legal paperwork concerning my inheritance.
Yet now he wanted lawyers kept out of it.
“Please leave.”
His voice softened.
“Baby, please.”
That familiar word hurt more than I’d expected.
“Don’t call me that.”
“I love you.”
I leaned against the door.
For one painful moment, I remembered the Brandon who brought coffee on rainy mornings.
The man who memorized my favorite books.
The man who comforted me all night after Grandma died.
Then the recording replayed in my mind.
“Do you love Brianna too?” I asked.
Silence followed.
Then:
“What?”
“I watched the recording.”
Another pause.
This one lasted longer.
Finally, he answered:
“Naomi, whatever you think you saw—”
“I watched you kiss her.”
“You’re misunderstanding the situation.”
I closed my eyes.
“What possible explanation makes that acceptable?”
“She’s been part of my life since childhood. You know that.”
“Did you deliberately ask her to ruin my mother’s hair?”
No response.
“Brandon?”
“You’re exaggerating everything.”
I clenched my hands.
“You caused my mother pain.”
“I never laid a hand on her!”
“No. You arranged for someone else to humiliate her.”
His voice changed.
“Be careful, Naomi.”
An uneasy chill ran through me.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m offering advice.”
Then he added:
“You have no idea how my father responds when someone publicly embarrasses our family.”
I stood motionless.
“Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Naomi—”
“Leave, or I’ll call the police.”
His voice turned cold.
“Fine. But you’ll regret treating me this way.”
I heard him walk away.
Then a car door slammed.
Mom stepped out of the kitchen.
She’d recorded part of our conversation on her phone.
I stared in surprise.
“When did you learn to do that?”
She gave a weary smile.
“Your grandmother always taught me to document threatening behavior.”
I hugged her.
An hour later, June called.
She’d found another worrying document.
The proposed property sale wasn’t just priced far below market value.
It included a clause requiring the seller to indemnify Briar Development against certain undisclosed liabilities.
In other words, I could have surrendered valuable property for a fraction of its worth while possibly taking on substantial financial obligations.
“They intended to acquire the property while leaving you financially vulnerable,” June explained.
I pressed my hand to my forehead.
“How much could I have lost?”
“The land alone may be worth millions more than their proposed price. But I’m especially concerned about other assets mentioned in the assignment.”
“What other assets?”
June hesitated.
“The blue ledger might help us understand.”
I glanced toward Mom’s sewing room.
Grandma’s belongings were stored inside.
Boxes of sewing patterns.
Spools of thread.
Old photographs.
Fabric samples.
And somewhere among those memories, a book that might reveal everything.
“Mom,” I called, “we need to find Grandma’s ledger.”
We spent almost four hours searching.
Mom’s sewing room was the smallest bedroom in our apartment.
Shelves covered every wall.
Glass jars held buttons, labeled containers kept the thread organized, and neatly folded fabrics filled the remaining space.
Grandma’s sewing machine stood beside the window.
I’d learned to sew on that machine at nine.
Mom searched the drawers while I went through storage boxes.
Eventually, I found a dusty metal trunk beneath a table.
Inside were photographs and bundles of aging business documents.
At the very bottom lay a navy-blue leather ledger.
My heart raced.
“Mom!”
She hurried over.
I held up the book.
“Is this the one?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
We opened it together.
Its pages held handwritten records dating back to the early 1990s.
Names.
Payments.
Loans.
Investments.
Grandma’s handwriting was beautifully organized.
I recognized several former employees.
Then one name caught my eye.
Charles Prescott.
An entry dated April 17, 1997, recorded a payment of $425,000.
Beside the amount, Grandma had written:
Initial capital contribution—Prescott Commercial Ventures.
Another entry documented transferred business equipment.
A third listed an additional investment.
“What does this mean?” I whispered.
Mom looked astonished.
“I remember your grandmother helping someone start a business, but I never realized how much she’d invested.”
I turned another page.
A handwritten note appeared.
Charles insists the investment will be temporary.
He believes I don’t understand ownership.
I will let the documents explain it to him.
Despite everything, I nearly smiled.
That sounded exactly like Grandma.
The next page mentioned stock certificates.
Another referred to a shareholders’ agreement.
I called June right away.
She answered quickly.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Read me the entries.”
I started reading.
When I mentioned the stock certificates, June grew unusually quiet.
Then she asked:
“Naomi, does Evelyn mention an ownership percentage?”
I turned another page.
There it was.
Written in Grandma’s precise handwriting.
Fifty-one percent ownership interest.
My mouth went dry.
“June?”
“What does the entry say?”
“Fifty-one percent.”
Silence followed.
Then June whispered:
“Oh my goodness.”
I stared at the number.
“Fifty-one percent of what?”
June inhaled slowly.
“Originally, Prescott Commercial Ventures.”
“Does that company still exist?”
“It was restructured years ago.”
“What did it become?”
A long pause followed.
Then she answered:
“Prescott Commercial Ventures eventually became part of Prescott Holdings Group.”
I recognized that name immediately.
Nearly everyone in Northern California commercial real estate knew it.
Prescott Holdings controlled hotels, office complexes, upscale residential developments, and event venues.
Charles Prescott had built his public reputation around that empire.
His photographs regularly appeared at charity events and groundbreaking ceremonies.
Business magazines celebrated him as a self-made entrepreneur.
I looked down at Grandma’s handwriting.
“Are you saying she owned part of that company?”
“She certainly held an ownership interest at one point. We’re still investigating what happened to those shares.”
“How valuable could they be?”
June hesitated.
“Potentially worth a considerable amount.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“But Grandma lived modestly. She drove an old Toyota.”
“Holding valuable assets on paper doesn’t necessarily mean receiving their financial benefits.”
I turned to Mom.
Her face had gone pale.
June continued.
“It’s possible dividends were withheld, ownership information concealed, or transfers made without proper authorization. We need to examine the original agreements.”
I turned another page.
There was one final handwritten note.
The entry was dated six months before Grandma died.
I have confirmed enough to know Charles has been dishonest.
The original documents are secure.
He believes time has erased the evidence.
But time has only increased its value.
Beneath those words, Grandma had written another sentence, underlined twice.
THEY CANNOT SELL WHAT NEVER BELONGED TO THEM.
I read it aloud.
Mom began to cry.
“She knew,” she whispered.
I turned to her.
“Knew what?”
Mom gently touched Grandma’s handwriting.
“That Charles would eventually come after you.”
Two days later, another shocking discovery changed everything I believed about my relationship.
June summoned me to her office Thursday morning.
She looked exhausted.
Several folders lay open across her desk.
“Naomi, please sit down.”
I obeyed.
Mom settled beside me.
June folded her hands.
“We’ve been investigating Brianna Collins.”
I swallowed.
“Alright.”
“Her current legal name is no longer simply Brianna Collins.”
I stared.
“What?”
June placed a certified record in front of me.
Across the top were the words:
CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE.
The document had been issued in Clark County, Nevada.
The date was March 14, 2023.
The groom was Brandon Michael Prescott.
The bride was Brianna Elise Collins.
My vision blurred.
I read the certificate.
Then read it again.
“That can’t be right.”
June stayed silent.
I shook my head.
“Brandon and I started dating in 2023.”
“I know.”
“He proposed last year.”
“I know.”
I pointed at the certificate.
“But this says—”
My voice shook.
“It says he’s married to her.”
June nodded.
“Yes.”
