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Stephanie stared at her father. How was this all about him? “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

He tapped the paper. “And now there will be a messy divorce mere weeks after the wedding. I can’t believe you did this to me, Stephanie.”

“Who said anything about a divorce?” Sure, the thought had blasted through her mind before she’d decided to hear Tate out.

“You can’t seriously be considering trusting this man? After all this?”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

Dad scoffed and shook his head.

Stephanie closed her eyes and pressed her mouth tight. Lord? I don’t know which way is up.

But she did know. God’s way was up. She couldn’t trust Dad’s counsel, couldn’t let him decide whether Tate was trustworthy or not.

Yeah, that photo didn’t look good. It danced in front of her mind every time she closed her eyes. It floated in her vision even when she was looking at something else, for two and a half days now.

She should’ve asked Tate about it on the phone. Better yet, accepted one of the video calls so she could have watched his face when she confronted him. But she wanted to see him. There was more to body language than could be seen onscreen.

“Stephanie, you’re being delusional. There’s no coming back from this.”

“Delusional? You want delusional? That was you, Dad. It was you pushing me at Eli when he clearly didn’t love me. It was you pretending it was just a matter of time. It was you deciding what was best for me and then steering me toward it regardless of how it was playing out. No, all you saw was sunshine and roses and unicorns.”

He rolled his eyes. “Unicorns? Please.”

“So, forgive me for not trusting you now. You decided I should work at the bank. You decided I should marry Eli. My mistake was blindly following your lead without ever asking God what He wanted for me. You think you’re going to be embarrassed now because of this thing with Tate?”

She grabbed the paper and winged it toward the recycling bin like a disc. Of course, it didn’t sail in like she’d envisioned. Several pages fluttered to the floor and the bulk landed a few feet short of the bin. Stephanie pressed her lips together, gathered the evidence, including that horrid photo, and dumped them in the receptacle, face down.

Then she pivoted and stared at her father. “It didn’t matter to you how everyone talked about how I was throwing myself at Eli when he clearly felt differently? How embarrassed I was when Harper won him without even trying?”

“You could have nailed that man down months before all that happened.”

He was impossible. “Dad, it’s not about what you think. You’re a church elder. Don’t you think praying about things and then following God’s guidance is a better way to go than making up your own mind and pursuing it against all evidence?”

His gaze had narrowed so far that his eyes were mere slits. “I have prayed.”

“I can’t even.” Stephanie let out a long, shaky breath. “I’m going for a walk. If the surgeons come back before I do, please give me a call. Enjoy reading your stupid newspaper.”

* * *

Flights rarely landed early, but this one did. Tate had been seated in business class and was the first passenger off the plane. He slung his briefcase over his shoulder, snapped the handle of his carryon to full length, and strode up the jetway, through the airport, and out to his waiting SUV.

He glanced at his phone, but there was no message from his wife, just several from Grandfather, who expected a full, in-person report yet this afternoon. That was not going to happen. Not while Arlys Simpson was still in surgery.

Tate navigated out of the airport and directly to the hospital, where he took the elevator to the surgical floor. Jack Simpson sat in the waiting room alone, head bowed in his hands. But where was Stephanie?

“Sir? How’s your wife?”

Jack’s head snapped up. “You? You have a lot of nerve coming here pretending nothing is wrong.”

Tate stumbled back a step. “Pardon me? Something is wrong. Is Arlys still in surgery? Where’s Stephanie?”

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

The man was making no sense. Grief could do that to a man. Maybe. Had Arlys not survived the surgery?

Then Tate’s gaze fell on the newspaper on the small table at Jack’s elbow. The entertainment section of the Chicago paper from Wednesday, with the incriminating image at a taunting angle. He took a deep breath. “Sir, if you’re talking about that photo, it’s not what it looks like.”