Chapter 3: The Locked Door
I slid the heavy envelope inside the inner pocket of my black tuxedo jacket. The stiff paper crinkled against my ribs, a sharp, physical reminder of the trap closing around us. My mind raced through timelines, legal structures, and signatures, but the immediate crisis was right here in the corridor: Eleanor could walk around the corner at any second.
Before I could formulate my next words, the sound of sharp heels echoed from the intersecting hallway near the bridal suites. It was Clara, Eleanor's personal assistant, her voice carrying a brittle, impatient edge as she called out into the empty space.
"Lily? Lily, where on earth are you? The photographer is waiting in the anteroom, and if you mess up that dress before the entrance, Eleanor will have my head!"
I stood up smoothly, smoothing the front of my jacket over the hidden envelope. I stepped directly in front of Lily, casting a long shadow that completely concealed her huddled form against the wainscoting. I took two steps forward to intercept Clara before she rounded the corner.
"She's right here, Clara," I said, my voice cutting through the corridor with enough authority to halt the assistant's hurried pace.
Clara stopped abruptly, her clipboard clutched to her chest like a breastplate. Her eyes scanned my tuxedo, noting the immaculate white boutonnière and the composed set of my shoulders, before flicking down to the empty space behind me.
"Mr. Vance. You shouldn't be out here before the processional—it’s bad luck," Clara said, her smile looking like it had been pinned onto her face with invisible wire. "And where is the girl? Eleanor gave strict instructions that she was to remain in the private suite until the cue."
"She had a slight spill, tripped over her hem," I replied smoothly, keeping my tone level and unreadable. "I've just finished calming her down. I'm sending her back to the private lounge now to freshen up. Tell Eleanor everything is under control."
Clara narrowed her eyes slightly, clearly suspicious of the delay, but the time constraints of a high-society wedding left no room for prolonged interrogations. "Ten minutes, Julian. Not a second more. The cameras are rolling from the moment those double doors open."
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"Understood," I said.
As Clara turned on her heel and hurried back toward the dressing rooms, I glanced down. Lily was already scrambling to her feet, wiping her cheeks with the back of her gloved hand. I caught her by the shoulder, guiding her quietly toward the heavy service stairwell behind the pillar—a secure route out of the public eye.
