Chapter 3 - The Music Dies
Inside the ballroom, Tiffany was laughing.
The sound carried over the chatter of the tables, high-pitched and celebratory. She was holding a flute of champagne, tilting her head back as her bridesmaids giggled around her like a flock of well-dressed birds. To her, the slap had not been a tragedy; it had been a victory. She had finally asserted total control over the territory. She had put the old woman in her place, eliminated the only person in the room who dared say the word *budget*, and proved that nothing stood between her and whatever she wanted.
Julian stood beside her, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch. His hand was shaking slightly.
"Babe, chill out," Tiffany murmured, leaning into his shoulder while keeping her eyes on the crowd. "She had it coming. Did you see the way she looked at my dad? Like he was a beggar asking for change. It was humiliating."
"Tiffany, you hit her," Julian whispered, his face pale under the amber chandeliers. "In front of two hundred and fifty people. My aunts saw it. My boss is sitting at table four."
"And none of them are saying a word, are they?" Tiffany replied, a triumphant smirk curving her glossy lips. "Because they know who runs this show now. Look at this room, Julian. It’s breathtaking. Your mom was holding us back with her penny-pinching. Now, where is the sommelier with my Laurent Reserve? Dad has been waiting twenty minutes."
Across the hall, Donald, her father, was leaning against the grand mahogany bar with a smug expression. He tapped his signet ring against the marble counter, gesturing impatiently to the head bartender.
"Hey! Barkeep! Let’s get a move on," Donald barked. "I ordered two bottles of the reserve for the head table. What’s taking so long back there?"
The bartender didn’t answer. Instead, his earpiece crackled with static. The young man listened intently for three seconds, his eyes darting toward the double doors at the far end of the ballroom. Then, without a word of explanation to Donald, the bartender reached down, grabbed the velvet ropes, and hooked them across the front of the bar.
"Excuse me?" Donald snapped, straightening up. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"
The bartender reached under the counter, hit a master switch, and the back-lit liquor displays clicked off into complete darkness.
Before Donald could unleash an expletive, the sweet, soaring melodies of the ten-piece string ensemble faltered. The first violinist lowered her bow mid-measure. The cellist stopped abruptly. A clumsy, disharmonious scrape echoed through the room as all ten musicians systematically placed their instruments into their velvet-lined cases.
The ballroom chatter gradually began to die down. Forks clinked against fine china and stopped. Conversations froze mid-sentence.
"What is going on with the music?" Tiffany demanded, her smile vanishing as she spun toward the raised stage. "Julian! Did you tell them to take a break? We haven't even cut the cake yet!"
Julian didn't answer. He couldn't. His gaze was fixed on the center aisle.
Marcus Vance was walking down the runner, his face carved from stone. Tucked neatly beneath his left arm was a thick, black leather folder embossed with the venue’s gold crest. Behind him walked four burly security guards in dark uniforms, their hands folded neatly in front of their belts.
Every eye in the room followed the small procession. The silence in the ballroom became absolute, so thick that the only sound was the rhythmic, heavy cadence of Marcus’s shoes on the polished floor.
He wasn't heading toward the bar. He wasn't heading toward the catering station.
May you like
He was marching directly toward the bridal dais.
***
