Chapter 4 - The Wedding Day
The Oakridge Estate was a twenty-acre expanse of manicured rye grass and white fencing six miles outside Franklin. Connor had rented the entire valley for the weekend, setting up a triple-tier white marquee tent that could be seen from the state highway two miles away. By four o'clock on Saturday afternoon, the gravel driveway was crowded with black town cars, luxury SUVs, and the silver sports cars of the city's tech elite.
The air was heavy with the smell of expensive gardenias, roasted pork, and the sweet, hot scent of bourbon from the open bars arranged along the terrace.
I arrived in a standard black sedan from the Davis Hardy pool fleet. I was wearing a simple navy linen dress, my hair pinned low at the back of my neck with an old silver comb that had belonged to my grandmother. In my right arm, I held Brinley, who was wearing a plain white cotton romper, her small eyes wide and dark as she took in the glare of the white tents and the loud, brassy music of the five-piece jazz band near the rose garden.
In my left hand, I carried a large, cream-colored envelope, sealed with the three-inch red wax disk of the Davis Hardy corporate trust division.
Betsy was the first to see me. She was standing near the entrance of the marquee, wearing a pale blue silk gown that dragged three inches through the dust of the gravel path. She was holding a crystal flute of pink champagne, her silver hair shimmering under the afternoon sun like an old pan.
"What are you doing here, Vivienne?" she hissed, stepping into my path before my boots had even cleared the lawn border. Her face went that dark, mottled purple that always appeared when she had to look at someone who didn't owe her money. "This is a private celebration. Connor explicitly told his security detail that you were not to be allowed on the grounds after the stunt you pulled with the hospital papers."
"The gate was open, Betsy," I said, my voice clear, carrying across the grass toward the first two rows of white folding chairs where three members of the Caldwell Digital Solutions board were sitting with their wives. "And as the owner of the land-lease for Oakridge, I don't require an invitation to visit the garden."
"You don't own this place," she spat, her hand shaking so hard that the champagne spilled over the rim of her glass onto her blue silk sleeve. "Connor paid the deposit from the corporate executive account on Tuesday."
"With my money," I said quietly.
Before she could scream, Connor stepped out from beneath the white canvas canopy. He looked exactly like the photographs in the morning business report—his tuxedo custom-tailored from wool so fine it looked like black ink under the sun, his white silk pocket square arranged in three perfect, parallel peaks. Alyssa was beside him, her hand tucked tightly into his elbow. Her wedding dress was an enormous, tiered mountain of French lace, designed to hide the prominent five-month curve of her stomach.
"Vivienne," Connor said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he used when he was threatening a vendor with a contract termination. "Get out of here. Now. I’ve got forty investors inside that tent who don't need to see my ex-wife making a scene with a bastard child."
"She’s not a bastard, Connor," I said, walking up the three wooden steps to the main stage platform until I was standing two feet from his polished leather shoes. "She’s your daughter. The only child that will ever carry your genetic line."
He laughed—a loud, barking sound that caused the jazz band to falter for three bars before the trumpet player found the key again. "You’re delusional, Vivienne. Alyssa’s having my boy in October. The whole town knows it. The board just signed the executive transition agreement based on the stability of my new estate."
"They signed the agreement based on a lie, Connor," I said. I reached out with my left hand and laid the heavy cream envelope directly on top of the white silk tablecloth where the family Bible and the silver wedding rings were waiting.
May you like
"What is this?" he asked, his gray eyes narrowing as his hand reached out automatically toward the red wax seal.
"It’s your future, Connor," I said. "Open it before the minister reads the lines. I’d hate for you to have to sign a second set of dissolution papers before the cake is cut."
