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My father had an affair with my fiancée the night before the wedding. I kept up the act until the altar.

And at the “I do”… my actions stunned everyone…

My name is Jonathan Clark. At thirty-two, I believed trust was the bedrock of any meaningful relationship. I was a senior project manager at a Chicago software firm, pulling a solid six-figure salary that afforded me a comfortable life in a Lincoln Park condo.

It was the American dream, polished to a perfect shine.

I was about to marry Meghan Davis, the woman I thought was my soulmate, and my relationship with my father, Robert Clark, was everything a son could want. He was my hero, my mentor, the man who taught me that integrity was worth more than any paycheck.

My father, sixty years old, was a respected real estate broker, his reputation built over three decades.

He and my mother, Mary, had been married for thirty-five years, their bond the gold standard against which I measured all others. When I introduced him to Meghan two years ago, he welcomed her like the daughter he never had.

Meghan, thirty, was a sharp, beautiful marketing coordinator.

We met at a Fourth of July barbecue, and within three months, I knew I wanted to spend my life with her.

She fit into my family seamlessly. My mother adored her, and my father often remarked how lucky I was.

Our wedding was set for a crisp Saturday in October at St. Michael’s in Old Town. The reception at the Chicago History Museum was booked, invitations sent to 150 guests. I’d obsessed over every detail, from the vintage bourbon bar to the jazz trio. My life was a perfectly executed project plan, on schedule and under budget.