Chapter 1 - The Shattered Glass
The sound of Victoria Sterling’s crystal champagne flute shattering against the stone terrace echoed like a gunshot. It was the only sound in the sprawling Newport estate. The string quartet had abruptly stopped playing, the cellist’s bow hovering mid-air.
I didn’t break my stride. The heavy silk of my crimson gown swept over the manicured grass as I walked toward the seating area, my three boys trailing beside me in perfect, silent synchronicity. The elite of Boston’s high society parted like the Red Sea. I saw senators clutching their pearls and hedge fund managers with their mouths slightly ajar.
Up at the altar, standing beneath an archway of imported white orchids, was Julian. My ex-husband. He looked exactly as he had five years ago—impeccably tailored, devastatingly handsome, and utterly hollow.
Beside him, Beatrice Kensington, his bride-to-be, noticed the shift in the crowd. She turned, her smile freezing as her gaze landed on me, and then, inevitably, on the three miniature versions of her groom.
"Julian," Beatrice whispered, her voice carrying in the dead silence. "Who are they?"
Julian didn't answer her. He couldn't. His ice-blue eyes—the exact same shade as the three pairs glaring back at him from the lawn—were wide with a mixture of shock, terror, and an agonizing realization. He took a step forward, practically abandoning his bride at the altar, completely oblivious to the murmurs erupting from the crowd.
I didn’t walk toward the altar. I wasn't there to stop a wedding. I was there to make a point. I casually bypassed the VIP section and headed straight for the back.
"Table 34, boys," I said smoothly, my voice carrying just enough for the front rows to hear. "Right by the catering doors. Just as Grandma Victoria requested."
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The collective gasp from the elite crowd was music to my ears. I sat down gracefully. Leo, Miles, and Silas took their seats, looking around with the unimpressed air of children who were used to penthouses, not petty high-society games.
Within seconds, the media—who had been cordoned off outside the gates—began snapping photos frantically through the wrought-iron fences. The flashbulbs popped, reflecting off the ocean behind us. The "Wedding of the Decade" had just become a spectacular crime scene, and I held the smoking gun.
