Chapter 6
The heavy oak doors of the grand ballroom remained firmly shut, but the collective anticipation of the crowd was palpable. Guests had begun to drift toward their assigned seats, murmuring appreciatively as they took in the soaring floral arches and the warm amber lighting designed to create an intimate, romantic atmosphere. Yet, beneath the polite chatter, a low-level anxiety was beginning to ripple through the front rows where the family members sat. The wedding coordinator, a tightly wound woman with a clipboard and a headset, was frantically whispering into her collar microphone, pacing near the service entrance with an increasingly pale expression.
Thomas pushed open the service door and slipped into the corridor, his intuition warning him that something was fundamentally wrong. He strode toward the private elevator bank just as the doors chimed and Julian stepped out, flanked by Lily, who kept her head down, her dark hair half-covering her face. Thomas stopped dead in his tracks, taking in Julian’s rumpled navy suit and Lily’s flushed, tear-streaked cheeks. "What on earth is going on?" Thomas demanded, stepping into their path. "The guests are taking their seats. Where is Claire? The minister is checking his watch in the vestry."
Julian stopped, his face a mask of hard angles and suppressed panic. "There is no wedding, Thomas," he said flatly, his voice devoid of its usual energetic cadence. "Claire left. She called the whole thing off ten minutes ago." Thomas stared at him, blinking as if trying to translate a foreign language. "Left? What do you mean, she left? Her father flew in from London this morning. The reception dinner is pre-ordered for one hundred and sixty people. You cannot just cancel a wedding because of a bridezilla panic attack."
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"It wasn't a panic attack," Lily interjected softly, her voice barely audible over the distant strains of the quartet. She looked up at Thomas with haunted eyes. "She found out about us, Thomas. She walked in while I was trying on her dress. She saw everything, and she walked away." Thomas let out a sharp, incredulous breath, running a hand through his hair as the scale of the disaster settled over him. "You wore her dress? On the wedding day? Lily, what were you thinking? Are you out of your absolute mind?"
Julian stepped between them, his posture defensive. "Enough, Thomas. We don't need a post-mortem right now. We need to go into that ballroom and tell everyone to go home before they sit down and eat appetizers paid for with Claire’s father’s money." The irony of the statement hung heavy in the air. Beatrice emerged from the elevator behind them, her glittering gold sequin dress flashing under the harsh corridor lights, her expression a masterclass in aristocratic fury. "Do not look at me to make the announcement, Julian," she snapped, brushing past them toward the exit. "I am catching the next flight back to Palm Beach. You made this bed; lie in it alone."
