After my client threw champagne at my 68-year-old seamstress and threatened us, she accidentally dropped a burner phone detailing her plot to poison the groom at the altar.

The Vance Estate in Southampton was a sprawling, oceanside compound of gray cedar shingle, manicured rose gardens, and towering iron gates.

By Friday evening, the grounds were flooded with luxury limousines, black-tie guests, and media vans parked beyond the perimeter. The ocean wind whipped through the towering pines, carrying the distant crash of the Atlantic waves.

Inside the secondary guest house, the private bridal suite was an explosion of white roses, chilled vintage champagne, and vanity mirrors framed in bright bulbs.

I stood in the corner of the room, dressed in professional black silk, holding a silver needle and thread.

Vanessa stood before the mirror, radiating sheer arrogance. Her bridesmaids—three vapid socialites sipping bellinis—chattered mindlessly about seating charts and table settings.

"Out," Vanessa suddenly barked at them, checking her diamond wristwatch. "All of you, out. I need ten minutes of absolute quiet before the family toasts start."

The bridesmaids scrambled, giggling nervously, and vacated the suite, leaving only Vanessa and me.

Vanessa turned her cold eyes on me. "You too, Avery. Wait outside in the hallway."

"Miss Sterling, the train needs to be unpinned from the travel wrap," I said calmly, kneeling beside the hem. "If I don't steam out the underside fold now, it will drag awkwardly across the stone terrace."

Vanessa scowled, checking her watch again. Her nerves were showing. Her fingers tapped frantically against the marble vanity counter. "Fine. You have three minutes. Keep your back turned and your mouth shut."

She walked toward the private bathroom adjacent to the suite.

The moment she turned the corner, the terrace French doors clicked open.

A man stepped into the dressing room.

He was tall, with slicked-back dark hair, wearing a sharp tuxedo that didn't quite hide the predatory tension in his shoulders. He looked like an older, crueler version of Julian. Carter Vance.

I kept my head down, pretending to adjust the pearls along the back train, my breath caught in my throat. The pearl camera at the front of the gown was angled slightly toward the vanity mirror, capturing the entire room’s reflection.

"You're late," Vanessa whispered harshly, stepping out of the bathroom.

"The federal judge arrived early. I had to shake his hand," Carter hissed, pulling a small, antique silver flask from his inner breast pocket. It was engraved with the Vance family crest—an exact replica of the heirloom flask Julian had inherited from his grandfather.

"Is it inside?" Vanessa asked, her voice dropping to a chilling murmur.

"Colorless, odorless, completely undetectable in post-mortem toxicology unless they run a specialized synthetic panel," Carter said, handing the flask to her. "He takes a sip during his uncle's toast, his heart gives out fifteen minutes later on the terrace. By the time the ambulance clears the gates, you are the grieving widow of an eighty-million-dollar estate."

Vanessa took the flask, her lips curving into a grotesque smile. "And your cut?"

"Forty percent wired to Zurich the moment probate clears," Carter whispered. "Just like we planned."

Every word. Every detail.

The audio transponder was feeding live to Julian, Sarah, and two federal prosecutors parked three hundred yards away in the communications trailer.

"What about the dressmaker?" Carter asked suddenly, his cold eyes darting toward the corner where I knelt on the floor.

My heart seized.

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "She's an idiot. Terrified of her own shadow. She doesn't suspect a thing."

Carter didn't look convinced. He took two slow, menacing strides toward me. His polished leather shoes stopped inches from my hands.

"Stand up, girl," Carter commanded.

I took a deep breath, gathered my courage, and stood up slowly. I kept my expression blank, subservient, and empty. "Sir?"

Carter leaned in close, his gaze dissecting my face. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

"Miss Clark is the owner of Clark Couture," Vanessa snapped impatiently from the vanity. "Leave her alone, Carter. We don't have time for your paranoia. The guests are already taking their seats in the grand ballroom."

Carter stared at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, he reached inside his jacket.