At my own wedding, my parents had to stand because my husband’s family took every seat. When I protested, his mother snapped, “They don’t belong here,” and my husband s:lapp:ed me in front of more than 80 guests.

The study of the historic estate was paneled in dark mahogany, smelling faintly of old paper, leather, and cigar smoke.

Christopher sat behind the heavy desk with the ease of a king holding court. Florence stood by the window, her arms crossed, watching me like a hawk perched over fresh meat. Next to the desk stood Arthur Sterling, the Delacroix family’s private attorney, tapping a golden fountain pen against a thick legal folio.

"Giselle," Sterling began in a dry, bureaucratic monotone, sliding three copies of a contract across the polished wood. "Given the sudden friction earlier, Florence and Christopher have requested an updated addendum to the standard prenuptial agreement. It outlines asset distribution in the event of an annulment or divorce within the first seven years."

I took a seat in the velvet armchair opposite Christopher, placing my white lace gloves neatly on my lap. "I already signed the prenuptial agreement last month. It stated that neither of us had claims on prior personal property."

"Things change, Giselle," Christopher said smoothly, leaning forward. "My family is taking a monumental social risk by welcoming your family into our circle. Look at today. Your parents couldn't even bother to rent a proper morning coat for your father. My mother’s friends are already talking."

"They're simple people, Christopher," I murmured.

"Precisely," Florence snapped from the window. "And simple people are reckless. This addendum simply transfers administrative stewardship of any ancillary land holdings registered under your extended family line to Delacroix Holdings, in exchange for an annual stipend of fifty thousand dollars paid directly to your parents."

My heart hammered against my ribs, but my face remained completely still.

*Ancillary land holdings.*

"I don't own any land," I said, tilting my head in feigned confusion. "My father only has the farm back in Bryan County."

Christopher’s eyes flashed with a hungry, desperate glint that he quickly tried to mask with a patronizing smile. "It's just standard boilerplate language, sweetheart. It covers potential inheritances. In case your father ever passes down that old swamp tract. We'll handle the taxes, the environmental permits—burdens your father clearly can't manage on his modest pension."

Suddenly, the pieces snapped into focus with terrifying clarity.

Three months ago, Christopher had unexpectedly offered to help my father organize his tax records. He had spent hours digging through Dad's study, asking probing questions about the boundary lines between Bryan County and the coast. Dad had brushed him off, laughing that the land was "just marsh and pine trees."

What Christopher hadn't realized was that Dad's family had held that deed since 1888. Over four hundred acres of pristine, deepwater coastal frontage right along the shipping channel.

And just last week, Savannah City Council had secretly passed the preliminary zoning for the South Atlantic Deepwater Cargo Terminal.

The land wasn't just marsh.

It was the single most valuable piece of undeveloped commercial waterfront in the entire state of Georgia. Worth an estimated seventy-five million dollars.

Christopher wasn't marrying me despite my "poverty." He was marrying me *because* of what he thought was an ignorant, unsuspecting old man sitting on a fortune he didn't know he owned.

"Let me read section four," I said, reaching for the papers.

Christopher’s hand slammed down on the desk, stopping my fingers.

"You don't need to read it, Giselle," he said, his voice dropping into that low, threatening register from the chapel. "You don't understand commercial law anyway. Sign it. The guests are waiting, the photographer is on the clock, and I am running out of patience. Don't make me remind you twice in one day who runs this family."

The implicit threat of another slap hung thick in the air.

Florence didn't flinch. In fact, she looked pleased, savoring my supposed cornering.

I looked at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the study.

Thirty-two minutes had passed since my call to Lucas.

"I need a pen," I whispered.

Sterling handed me his gold fountain pen. I unscrewed the cap slowly, lingering over every motion, checking the alignment of the nib.

"Hurry up," Florence urged.

Right at that moment, through the heavy leaded windows facing the long gravel driveway of the estate, a deep, rhythmic rumble shook the glass panes.

It wasn't thunder.