Chapter 5 - The Uninvited GuestAs the applause died down and the orchestra resumed playing, the bridal party began mingling among the guests.
Tiffany drifted through the tables like an arctic queen, her diamond-encrusted veil trailing behind her, accepting congratulations with practiced grace. When she spotted me sitting at Table 4, her steps slowed. A triumphant, predatory gleam lit up her eyes.
She marched straight toward my table, her silk skirt whispering against the carpet.
“Wendy,” Tiffany purred, stopping beside my chair and looking down at me as if I were a smudge on her pristine white shoe. “I am so, so surprised you came. When I saw your RSVP in the mail, I assumed it was a clerical error.”
I didn't stand up. I simply looked up at her, swirling the remaining champagne in my glass.
“Not a clerical error, Tiffany,” I said, my voice calm and low. “I wouldn't miss this for the world. After all, I wanted to see firsthand what my former investment portfolio was being spent on.”
Tiffany’s smile tightened, the artificial warmth draining from her face. “You always were bitter about the divorce, Wendy. But honestly, you should thank Curtis. He upgraded his life, and frankly, you look like you could use a change of scenery. Maybe a nice retirement community in upstate New York?”
Before I could reply, Curtis appeared behind his bride, placing a possessive hand on her bare shoulder. His face was tense, his jaw clenched beneath his carefully trimmed beard.
“Wendy,” Curtis said, his voice dropping into a harsh, controlled hiss. “What the hell are you doing here? This is a private guest list.”
“Your wedding planner sent me an invitation, Curtis,” I replied, tilting my head with a sweet, innocent smile. “And protocol dictates that when a man invites you to celebrate his success, you show up to inspect the merchandise.”
Several guests at neighboring tables turned their heads, picking up on the sudden drop in temperature between our triad.
Curtis’s face flushed a mottled, furious red. “Get out. Before I have security escort you out of the building. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Am I?” I asked softly.
I reached down to the floor beside my chair, picked up a heavy, leather-bound portfolio embossed with gold legal seals, and placed it neatly on the white linen tablecloth right between our water glasses.
“Before you throw me out, Curtis, you might want to hear from the actual guest of honor,” I said. “My uncle hasn't even given his toast yet.”
Curtis stared at the leather portfolio, his eyes narrowing in sudden, instinctual panic. “What is that?”
“Oh, just a little wedding gift,” I smiled. “From the family estate.”
Before Curtis could reach across the table to grab the portfolio, the sound system near the stage buzzed loudly.
May you like
Marcus Vance—not the divorce lawyer Harrison, but the senior commercial litigator from Seattle—was standing at the microphone on the elevated stage, having quietly stepped up while the room was distracted by our confrontation.
The entire ballroom fell dead silent.
