We continued our march toward the front. According to Eleanor’s meticulous, cruel planning, I was meant to slink through the side paths, completely unnoticed, and bury myself at Table 27 by the kitchen doors.
Instead, I walked right down the main aisle, leading my triplets directly toward the altar where the groom was waiting.
Ethan stood near the flower-entwined archway. Beside him was Caroline Hastings, looking radiant but suddenly deeply confused in her custom French lace bridal gown.
When Ethan’s eyes fell upon us, I watched the exact moment his reality fractured.
His gaze drifted from my emerald dress, up to my face, and then down. Down to Liam. To Noah. To Caleb.
His breath hitched. The color left his face so rapidly I thought he might faint right there on the white carpet. His hands dropped to his sides. He took a half-step forward, completely forgetting his bride, completely forgetting the U.S. Senator standing in the front row, completely forgetting the priest.
“Clara…?” his voice was barely a whisper, but in the dead silence of the estate, it echoed.
Five years ago, this man had sat in a leather chair, refusing to look at me while his mother’s lawyers handed me a pen to sign away my dignity. He had chosen his family’s wealth over our marriage. He had chosen cowardice.
Now, he was looking at the consequences of that cowardice. Three five-year-old consequences, wearing matching velvet tuxedos.
“Hello, Ethan,” I said, pausing just a few feet from the front row. My voice was calm, devoid of the anger I had carried for so long. There was only pure, chilling indifference. “Lovely wedding. The roses are a nice touch.”
“Who… who are they?” Caroline Hastings stepped forward, her perfectly manicured brow furrowing as she looked between Ethan and the boys. She wasn’t stupid. She saw the resemblance instantly. The political elite are trained to spot scandals before they break, and Caroline was realizing, in real-time, that she was standing in the middle of a nuclear blast zone. “Ethan? What is this? Who is this woman?”
Before Ethan could find his tongue, the sharp, rhythmic click-click-click of stilettos echoed aggressively against the stone path.
Eleanor Montgomery had descended from the balcony.
Table 27
“Get them out of here.”
Eleanor’s voice was like ice cutting through glass. She stood before us, her chest heaving beneath her Chanel haute couture suit, her eyes blazing with a mixture of absolute fury and deep, underlying panic. She didn’t look at the boys. She refused to look at them, as if denying their existence could make them disappear.
“Clara,” Eleanor hissed, stepping closer so the guests couldn’t hear her next words. “I don’t know what kind of sick, desperate stunt you are trying to pull, or whose children you borrowed for this pathetic display, but you will leave this property immediately before I have security throw you into the lake.”
I didn’t flinch. I actually laughed—a soft, melodic sound that made Eleanor’s jaw tighten so hard I heard her teeth click.
“Borrowed, Eleanor?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you could borrow children who carry your late husband’s exact facial structure. But if you’re doubting it, I have three certified DNA profiles in my handbag. Would you like me to hand them to the Chicago Tribune reporter sitting in the fourth row? I believe she’s a friend of yours.”
Eleanor’s breath hitched. Her eyes darted to the reporter, who was already frantically typing on her phone.
“You brought an invitation, didn’t you?” Eleanor whispered, her voice shaking with rage. “You were assigned a seat. Go to it. Or leave.”
“Oh, I intend to take my seat,” I said smoothly. I looked down at my boys. “Come along, sweethearts. Let’s go find our table.”
I turned away from the breathless bride, the paralyzed groom, and the trembling matriarch. With perfect poise, I led my sons away from the altar and walked toward the very back of the estate, right toward the noisy, bustling kitchen doors.
Table 27.
It was exactly as miserable as Eleanor had intended. The table was small, tucked behind a massive floral arrangement meant to hide the service entrance. The swinging doors to the kitchen were constantly opening and closing, filling the air with the smell of heavy garlic and the shouting of stressed catering staff.
The other guests at the table were distant, third-cousins of the Montgomerys who had been deemed too unimportant for the front rows. They looked at me and my boys with wide, terrified eyes, actively moving their chairs away as if we were contagious.
“Mama, it’s loud here,” Caleb said, covering his ears as a waiter slammed a tray of dirty glasses behind us.
“I know, baby,” I said, pulling him close and kissing the top of his head. “But don’t worry. We won’t be sitting here for long.”
I pulled out my phone and sent a single text message to my assistant, Sarah.
Clara: Phase two. Now.
The Power Shift
Ten minutes later, the wedding ceremony attempted to resume, though the atmosphere was completely ruined. The priest stammered through the vows, Ethan kept looking back toward Table 27 instead of at his bride, and Caroline looked like she wanted to strangle both of them with her veil.
Just as the priest said, “I now pronounce you…” the heavy roar of a helicopter engine began to echo from the sky.
The guests looked up in confusion. The sound grew louder, vibrating through the crystal chandeliers hanging from the garden tents. A massive, sleek, matte-black corporate helicopter bearing the logo of Aegis Global Media—my company—hovered directly over the Lake Geneva estate.
The wind from the rotors whipped through the crowd, knocking over expensive floral arrangements and sending several women’s designer hats flying into the fountains.
The helicopter didn’t land on the Montgomerys’ private pad. Instead, it hovered just low enough for two men in tailored black suits to descend a temporary ramp onto the outer lawn, carrying a massive, velvet-draped easel.
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