The guard looked at the Rolls Royce, his eyes widening. He didn’t even check the list. He just waved them through to the VIP drop-off right in front of the steps.
«Showtime,» Fiona said.
The gravel driveway of the Vanderbilt Hall was lined with guests who had just disembarked from the shuttle buses provided by the hotel. Brucie had insisted on shuttles for the regular guests to keep traffic down, reserving the front entrance for only the bridal party and the most elite VIPs.
Brucie stood at the top of the grand limestone staircase, adjusting his cufflinks. They were gold, engraved with his initials. He felt invincible.
To his left stood his best man, a slick broker named Greg, who laughed too loud at Brucie’s jokes.
«Is she here yet?» Brucie asked, scanning the arriving crowd. He was looking for a beat-up Honda Civic or perhaps a taxi dropping someone off at the main gate because they couldn’t afford the valet fee.
«Haven’t seen her, man,» Greg chuckled. «Maybe she got cold feet, or maybe she couldn’t get the shift off at the diner.»
They both laughed. Brucie checked his Rolex. He wanted this moment. He needed Fiona to see the sheer scale of this venue.
The Vanderbilt Hall was a Gilded Age mansion, a testament to old money—the kind of money Brucie was desperate to be associated with. He had stretched his company’s credit line to the breaking point to rent this place just to prove he had made it.
Suddenly, the chatter among the guests at the bottom of the stairs died down. Heads turned. A deep, purring rumble echoed off the stone facade of the mansion.
Slowly, majestically, the vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud rolled around the fountain. The sunlight caught the polished chrome, blindingly bright. It moved with the heavy grace of a tank dressed in a tuxedo.
«Who is that?» Greg asked, squinting. «Is that Tiffany’s dad?»
«No,» Brucie frowned. «Charles is already inside, screaming at the caterers about the wine. Maybe it’s the venture capital guys from Boston.»
Brucie straightened his tie. If it was investors, he needed to look sharp. He took a step down the stairs, putting on his best CEO smile. The car came to a smooth halt right at the base of the red carpet.
A valet scrambled to open the back door, but the driver, a uniformed chauffeur, beat him to it. The driver opened the rear door. First, a leg emerged.
It wasn’t the leg of a woman defeated by life. It was toned, tanned, and encased in a strappy, diamond-encrusted stiletto that cost more than Brucie’s entire wedding tuxedo. Then Fiona stepped out.
The silence that fell over the courtyard was absolute. The emerald green dress was a masterpiece. It hugged her frame like liquid determination, the velvet catching the light and shifting colors from deep forest to bright jade. The slit ran high—daring, but elegant.
Her hair, which she used to wear in a messy bun while grading papers, was now a sleek, glossy cascade of waves over one shoulder. Her makeup was flawless, highlighting eyes that looked sharper and colder than Brucie remembered.
She didn’t look like a substitute teacher. She looked like she owned the bank that held the mortgage on the building. And she wasn’t alone.
Richard stepped out from the other side, buttoning his tuxedo jacket. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and the easy, relaxed posture of a man who doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. He walked around the car, offered his arm to Fiona, and she took it.
«Oh my God,» a woman in the crowd whispered. It was Sarah, one of their old mutual friends who had sided with Brucie during the divorce. «Is that… Fiona?»
Brucie froze on the third step. His smile faltered, twitching at the corners. His brain couldn’t process the image.
This was a glitch in his reality. Fiona was supposed to be dowdy. She was supposed to look tired. She was supposed to be wearing something off the rack from a discount store.
Fiona looked up, her eyes locked onto Brucie’s. She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave. She just held his gaze with a terrifying calmness.
«Keep walking,» Richard murmured to her, patting her hand on his arm. «Chin up. You’re the Queen of England right now.»
«I feel more like the executioner,» Fiona whispered back, a small smirk playing on her lips.
They ascended the stairs. The crowd parted for them like the Red Sea. These were people who had ignored Fiona’s texts five years ago. Now they were staring at her with a mix of jealousy and awe.
As they reached the top of the stairs, Brucie found his voice. It was higher than usual. «Fiona.»
Fiona stopped. She looked him up and down, her expression mild, like she was inspecting a piece of fruit at the market that was slightly bruised.
«Hello, Brucie,» she said. Her voice was smooth and rich. «Congratulations.»
Brucie blinked. He looked at the car which was pulling away, then at Richard, and finally back at the diamonds dripping from Fiona’s ears. «I… I didn’t think you’d come,» Brucie stammered, completely off script.
«You sent the invite,» Fiona said, her tone light. «And you offered a free meal. Who am I to turn down charity?»
The word charity hung in the air like a slap. She had taken his insult and worn it like armor.
«And this is…» Brucie gestured aggressively at Richard, trying to regain control of the interaction.
«Richard,» Richard said, extending a hand. He didn’t offer a last name. He didn’t offer a title. He just shook Brucie’s hand with a grip that was firm and crushing. «Old friend of Fiona’s.»
«Right.» Brucie scoffed, pulling his hand away quickly. «Well, the bar is inside. Don’t drink too much; it’s an open bar. But we don’t want a scene.»
It was a weak jab. A pathetic attempt to remind her of the mess he claimed she was.
Fiona leaned in just an inch. «Don’t worry, Brucie. I only drink the good stuff. I assume you sprung for the top shelf.»
Before he could answer, she swept past him, the train of her velvet dress brushing against his polished shoes. Brucie stood there, stunned, as the scent of her perfume—Santal and wild jasmine—drifted over him. It was the smell of money.
«Dude,» Greg whispered, leaning into Brucie. «That is your ex-wife? You said she was a troll.»
Brucie gritted his teeth, his face turning a shade of red that clashed with the brickwork. «She rented the car,» he hissed. «It’s a rental. It has to be. She’s faking it.»
But deep down in the pit of his stomach, Brucie felt the first tremor of fear.
The reception hall was breathtaking, a cavernous ballroom with high ceilings and crystal chandeliers. However, Fiona’s trained eye immediately spotted the corners Brucie had cut.
The flowers were mostly filler greenery with very few actual blooms. The tablecloths were polyester, not linen, and the champagne being passed around by the waiters was a domestic sparkling wine, not the French vintage implied by the label.
«Cheap,» Fiona murmured, taking a glass and taking a tiny sip before wrinkling her nose. «Acidic.»
«He’s overleveraged,» Richard reminded her, grabbing a glass of sparkling water instead. «He spent all the money on the venue rental to look important and had nothing left for the experience. It’s a classic rookie mistake.»
They stood near a marble pillar observing the room. Guests were whispering, pointing at Fiona. She ignored them, admiring the architecture of the ceiling.
«Fiona.» The voice was shrill. Fiona turned to see a young woman approaching. It was Tiffany, the bride.
Tiffany was beautiful in a conventional, Instagram-filter sort of way. Her dress was massive, a ball gown that took up three feet of space in every direction, covered in sequins. She looked like a princess cake. But her face was pinched with annoyance. She had clearly just been briefed by Brucie.
«I’m Tiffany,» she said, not offering a hand. She held her bouquet like a weapon. «Brucie told me you were here.»
«The bride,» Fiona said, smiling politely. «You look lovely, Tiffany. The dress is very big.»
Tiffany narrowed her eyes. «Brucie said you were a teacher. A substitute.» She looked Fiona up and down, her eyes lingering on the emerald velvet. «Did you spend your whole year’s salary on that dress? It’s a bit dramatic for a wedding, don’t you think? Trying to upstage the bride?»
«I wouldn’t dream of it,» Fiona lied smoothly. «This is just something old I had in the back of my closet.»
Richard coughed to cover a laugh. The dress was literally weeks old and custom-made in Paris.
«Well,» Tiffany huffed, flipping her long blonde extensions. «I hope you enjoy the food. My father paid for the catering. It’s top tier. I know Brucie felt bad for you being alone and struggling. He has such a big heart, inviting charity cases.»
Fiona felt a flare of anger, not at the girl, but at Brucie for feeding this young woman such poison.
«He certainly has a heart,» Fiona said cryptically. «Make sure you keep a close eye on it. It tends to wander.»
Tiffany’s eyes widened, her insecurity flaring. But before she could snap back, Brucie appeared, sliding an arm around Tiffany’s waist. He had regrouped. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand and a fake smile plastered on his face.
«Everything okay here, ladies?» he asked, his voice booming. He looked at Richard. «So, Richard, what do you do? Drive the limo?»
It was a clumsy insult. Richard smiled, unbothered.
«I work in finance, mostly,» Richard said vaguely. «Helping businesses avoid bankruptcy, restructuring, that sort of thing.»
Brucie laughed, a barking sound. «Boring. I’m in logistics. Tech-driven supply chain management. Sterling Logistics. We’re about to go public next year. You’ve probably heard of us.»
«I have,» Richard said, his eyes twinkling with a dangerous intelligence. «I read your Q3 report. Interesting numbers regarding your debt-to-equity ratio.»
Brucie’s smile froze. The Q3 report wasn’t public. It was only shared with high-level investors and banks.
«How would you…» Brucie started, but he was interrupted by a commotion at the front of the room.
The DJ tapped his microphone. «Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats for the entrance of the father of the bride.»
«That’s my dad,» Tiffany beamed, forgetting her anger for a moment. «He’s the most important man in Rhode Island.»
«Charles Dubois,» Brucie said, puffing out his chest. «We’re practically partners. He’s going to announce a huge investment in Sterling Logistics tonight, during the toast. That’s the big surprise.»
Fiona and Richard exchanged a look. «Is he now?» Fiona asked softly.
«Oh yes,» Brucie gloated, leaning in close to Fiona’s face, smelling of cheap whiskey. «So take a good look, Fiona. This is what success looks like. I’m marrying into the Dubois empire. I’m going to be sitting at the head table. And you? You’re at table 49, by the kitchen.»
«Brucie, honey, let’s go,» Tiffany tugged on his arm. «Daddy is coming in.»
Brucie gave Fiona one last sneer. «Enjoy the free shrimp. Try not to stuff your purse.» He walked away, guiding his massive bride toward the head table.
Fiona stood still, her heart pounding against her ribs. «Table 49,» Fiona said, looking at the seating chart card in her hand. «He really put us by the kitchen.»
«We aren’t going to sit at table 49,» Richard said, checking his watch. «Because Charles Dubois is walking through those doors in about 30 seconds. And unless I’m mistaken, he has a very important question to ask his lead designer about the Miami project.»
«You think he’ll see me?» Fiona asked. «There are 300 people here.»
Richard gestured to her dress. «You are a green emerald in a sea of beige. He’s going to see you.»
The doors swung open. Charles Dubois strode in. He was a large man, boisterous, wearing a tuxedo that actually fit. He waved to the crowd, shaking hands, looking every bit the billionaire tycoon.