Chapter 3 - Locked Gates and Broken Illusions**
Inside the luxurious bridal suite of St. Claire Manor, the atmosphere was a frantic blur of hairspray, silk, and champagne corks popping. Sabrina stood before the towering antique mirror, smoothing down her designer wedding gown—which I had also quietly paid for months prior—while Victoria fussed over her veil, whispering excitedly about how their grand plan was falling into place without a single hitch.
“Mother, do you think old Arthur actually stayed home like you told him?” Sabrina asked, glancing at her reflection with a hint of callous indifference.
“Of course he did, darling,” Victoria laughed, pouring herself another flute of vintage champagne. “The man has no spine. He’s probably sitting in that dark workshop right now, crying over the ruined suit and wondering where he went wrong. By tomorrow night, once Raymond handles the transfer of his house and workshop, we’ll never have to look at his pathetic face again.”
Just outside the suite, Raymond strolled down the hallway in a custom Italian tuxedo, looking every bit the triumphant, wealthy patriarch he pretended to be. He had spent the morning bragging to high-society acquaintances about how he had single-handedly funded Sabrina’s upbringing and how proud he was to walk her down the aisle, completely erasing the twenty years he spent hiding from child support and responsibilities.
Downstairs, the hundreds of invited guests—influential business leaders, local politicians, and wealthy socialites—mingled in the grand courtyard, sipping drinks and admiring the breathtaking beauty of the venue. Everything seemed flawless. The string quartet played classical melodies, the floral arrangements filled the air with sweet fragrance, and the illusion of perfection was absolute.
Until the heavy iron security gates at the front of the estate suddenly groaned, hissed, and slammed shut with an automatic, deafening clank.
A collective murmur rippled through the gathered guests as the automated driveway bollards rose forcefully from the asphalt, blocking any vehicles from entering or exiting the property. Moments later, three sleek black legal couriers’ vans and two unmarked police vehicles rolled past the gates, their tires crunching smoothly over the gravel before coming to a synchronized stop right in front of the grand staircase.
Doors opened in unison. Marcus Vance stepped out of the lead vehicle carrying a thick leather portfolio, flanked by two armed local sheriff’s deputies and a federal court bailiff.
Inside the bridal suite, Victoria heard the commotion and walked briskly to the French windows, peering down at the courtyard with a frown of annoyance. “What on earth is going on down there? Why are police cars on the lawn? Someone go tell them this is a private wedding!”
Before anyone could move toward the door, the heavy oak entrance of the bridal suite swung open without a knock.
I stood in the doorway, wearing my sharp charcoal double-breasted suit, my expression completely neutral as I looked past the stunned makeup artists and florists straight at Victoria and Sabrina.
May you like
Victoria’s face went instantly pale. Her champagne flute slipped from her fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor in an explosion of glass and golden liquid.
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