Chapter 4 - The Reception’s Shadows
The Grand Oak Manor was supposed to be a place of celebration. A rustic ballroom with vaulted cedar ceilings, twinkling fairy lights wrapped around timber pillars, and long banquet tables adorned with eucalyptus garlands and white hydrangeas.
Yet, as the reception commenced, the atmosphere felt charged with the static electricity that precedes a summer thunderstorm.
The wedding ceremony had concluded with tears, cheers, and a standing ovation from my side of the family and Brandon’s former college friends. But the "Vance" side of the room—Barbara’s cousins, her bridge club friends, and her sycophantic older sister, Aunt Evelyn—sat clustered together near the open bar, their heads huddled like crows over a carcass.
"Did you see the way he treated his mother?" Aunt Evelyn whispered loudly to a woman sitting beside her, her voice carrying over the gentle acoustic music floating from the sound system. "Cast out like a dog. Over a joke. Barbara was just making a harmless point about modern marriages. Clara has him completely wrapped around her little finger."
I sat at the head table, picking at my roasted chicken, my knuckles white against the silverware.
Lisa was sitting between Brandon and me, happily devouring a bowl of macaroni and cheese, completely oblivious now that the storm inside the church had passed. Brandon had personally made sure the DJ played her favorite Taylor Swift songs, and she had spent the last twenty minutes dancing with my bridesmaids until her cheeks were bright pink.
"Eat some food, Clara," Brandon whispered, resting his warm hand over mine. "You're gripping that fork like a weapon."
"I should use it like one," I muttered under my breath, glancing toward Evelyn’s table. "They’re talking about us. They think you’re a monster for kicking Barbara out. They think I orchestrated it."
"Let them think whatever they want," Brandon said, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing the back of my fingers. "Their opinions died the second they watched my mother terrorize a seven-year-old and said nothing. Tonight belongs to us. Nobody else."
Before I could answer, the banquet doors opened, and a man walked into the ballroom.
He wasn't dressed in wedding attire. He wore a dark wool overcoat, his gray hair slightly windblown, carrying a thick leather briefcase under his arm. He looked around the room with sharp, calculating eyes until his gaze landed on the head table.
It was Arthur Pendelton, the Vance family’s long-time estate attorney.
Brandon stiffened. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced once again by that cold, defensive wall. He let go of my hand and stood up. "Arthur? What are you doing here?"
Pendelton walked toward the head table, ignoring the curious whispers breaking out across the room. He didn't look angry; he looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes etched deep with years of dealing with Vance family drama.
"Brandon," Pendelton said quietly, offering a stiff nod toward me. "Clara. Congratulations on your union."
"Cut the crap, Arthur," Brandon said, keeping his voice low so Lisa wouldn't hear. "Did my mother send you here to serve me with something? Because if she thinks she can sue me over wedding deposits, tell her I’ll see her in small claims court."
Pendelton sighed, setting the heavy briefcase on an empty chair. "Your mother didn't send me, Brandon. In fact, she has no idea I’m here. She called me from the back of a patrol car two hours ago, screaming hysterically, demanding I rewrite the family trust before the sun sets."
A chill ran down my spine. The family trust. Brandon’s father, Richard Vance, had been a wildly successful timber contractor who had passed away when Brandon was just fourteen. The estate had always been a source of unspoken tension, but Brandon had never relied on it—he had built his own construction management firm from scratch.
"Let her rewrite it," Brandon said coldly. "Give everything to Thomas. Give it to her cats. I don't care about my father's money if it comes with her strings attached."
"That’s just it, Brandon," Pendelton said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "She *can't* rewrite it. And that’s what I came to tell you. Because what your mother did today wasn't just cruel. It was desperate. She knew the clock was running out."
Brandon frowned. "What clock?"
May you like
Pendelton glanced nervously toward Aunt Evelyn’s table, then back to Brandon. "Your father’s will contained an explicit codicil regarding the principal disbursement of the timber holdings. A codicil that Barbara has spent seven years illegally suppressing. And now that you are legally married... everything changes."
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