Chapter 6: The Grand Foyer
Veronica tried to force a brittle, brittle smile as the two wedding coordinators shifted uncomfortably behind her in the wide corridor. She smoothed the front of her expensive ivory gown with fingers that wouldn't quite steady, her eyes darting past my shoulder to where David Miller stood by the mahogany desk.
"You're making a catastrophic mistake, Alexander," she hissed, keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry down the sweeping staircase. "The entire board of directors from my father's firm is downstairs. The caterers have been paid through a trust. If you think you can humiliate me in my own home, in front of the press and the county elite, you are entirely mistaken."
I didn't step back. I kept my weight centered, my hands resting lightly at my sides. "The accounts weren't paid through a trust, Veronica. David froze them this morning under federal jurisdiction. And the press isn't here for a wedding rehearsal. They're here for an embezzlement investigation and a child endangerment filing."
Her face drained of what little color remained. For a fraction of a second, the immaculate socialite facade cracked completely, revealing the frantic, calculating panic underneath. She looked past me into the bright, airy guest suite where Sofia sat quietly on the edge of the bed, her small fingers still clutching the yellow crayon.
"That brat," Veronica whispered, her voice dropping into a venomous hiss. "She ruined everything. I gave her food, a roof over her head, clothes that cost more than her mother's entire estate. And you're listening to a four-year-old over your own fiancée?"
"She wasn't wearing your clothes, Veronica," I said, my voice hardening like cold iron. "She was wearing a maid apron while you locked her in a walk-in closet to scrub your silver shoes. I saw the security footage. Mrs. Gable gave a sworn deposition twenty minutes ago."
One of the wedding coordinators gasped, dropping her leather-bound clipboard with a sharp clatter against the hardwood floor. Papers scattered across the Persian rug, but neither Veronica nor the coordinator bothered to pick them up.
"Let's go downstairs," I repeated, gesturing toward the curving staircase that led to the grand ballroom. "You can explain the missing funds to the board, or you can explain them to a federal judge. The choice is entirely yours."
Veronica's jaw tightened. She squared her shoulders, dragging the heavy silk and lace of her gown around her as she turned toward the stairs with stiff, measured dignity. "You'll regret this, Alexander. Before the sun sets, you'll be begging me to fix this."
May you like
"Walk," I said quietly.
We descended the steps together, step by heavy step, moving toward the bright chandeliers and the murmur of confused guests waiting below.
