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.

Florence frowned, walking closer to the window. "Who on earth is that? The catering staff was supposed to use the service gate."

Christopher stood up, adjusting his cufflinks with irritation. "I told the security guard at the gatehouse that no more unscheduled guests were permitted."

The sound grew deafening.

Down the three-quarter-mile gravel driveway, flanked by weeping willows and moss-hung oaks, rolled a convoy of six midnight-black Cadillac Escalades, led by an immaculate midnight-blue Rolls-Royce Phantom. They moved in precise, military formation, their headlights cutting through the late-afternoon coastal mist.

Guests on the terrace outside were already spilling over the stone balustrades, murmuring in astonishment.

"Who the hell is that?" Christopher muttered, his irritation turning into apprehension. "Did Uncle Julian call in investors from Atlanta?"

"Julian doesn't know anyone who drives a half-million-dollar Phantom," Florence whispered, her eyes wide as she pressed her face against the window glass.

I slowly set the gold fountain pen back on the mahogany desk, leaving the signature line completely blank.

"What are you doing?" Christopher snapped at me. "Sign the paper, Giselle!"

"I think we should see who our guests are," I replied, standing up straight. The meek posture, the downcast eyes, the timid voice—I discarded them like a soiled coat.

Christopher stared at me, startled by the sudden shift in my spine, the icy composure that had replaced the submissive bride.

"Giselle, don't test me—"

Before he could finish his sentence, the heavy front doors of the estate slammed open with a concussive thud that vibrated through the floorboards.

A booming, authoritative voice rang out across the vaulted ceiling of the grand foyer:

"Where is Christopher Delacroix?"

Florence gasped. Christopher turned pale.

We walked out of the study and onto the grand mezzanine overlooking the entrance hall. Below us, the sea of Delacroix relatives had parted down the middle like the Red Sea.

Flanked by four men in tailored charcoal suits with discrete security earpieces, a man strode into the foyer.

He wore a bespoke navy double-breasted suit that screamed Savile Row. His carriage was towering, commanding, and radiating an aura of lethal competence. His face bore the sharp, unmistakable bone structure of the Vance bloodline.

My older brother, Lucas Vance.

Behind him walked two men carrying leather briefcases. One of them was Marcus Vance, our cousin and top litigator for Vance Global. The other was none other than Judge Robert Caldwell—the presiding senior magistrate of the Chatham County Superior Court.

Florence gripped Christopher's forearm. "Christopher... isn't that Judge Caldwell? Why is he with those men?"

Lucas didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the chandeliers or the floral arrangements that cost twenty thousand dollars.

His eyes swept the room until they found the service doors.

The moment he saw our parents—standing in the corner, ignored and isolated—his expression darkened with a fury so intense it sucked the air out of the room.

Lucas walked straight past the Delacroix inner circle. He didn't acknowledge a single one of the socialites who tried to make eye contact. He reached Samuel and Josephine, stopped, and bowed his head with deep, unyielding reverence.

"Dad," Lucas said, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room. "Mom. Why are you standing near the kitchen?"

Samuel looked at his son, a faint, tired smile touching his lips. "There weren't any chairs left for people like us, son."

Lucas turned around slowly.

His eyes locked onto Christopher standing beside me on the mezzanine.