Chapter 8 - The Rehearsal of Lies
By Friday night at eight o'clock, I was back in my armor—a custom midnight-blue Tom Ford tuxedo—standing inside the private conservatory of Le Bernardin for our rehearsal dinner.
Fifty of our closest "friends" and family members were gathered under twinkling fairy lights, sipping Dom Pérignon and nibbling on caviar blinis. Vanessa was in her element, wearing a backless white satin halter dress, floating from table to table like a queen holding court. Her parents—a pair of washed-up Connecticut blue-bloods who had mortgaged their country club estate twice to fund Vanessa's lifestyle—were already cornering my board members to talk about summering in Nantucket on my yacht.
"Logan, darling, there you are!" Vanessa glided over to me, looping her arm possessively through mine and pressing her cheek to my shoulder as a society photographer from Vogue snapped our picture. As soon as the flash faded, she lowered her voice to a sharp hiss through her frozen smile. "Where the hell has Marcus been all afternoon? I tried calling his cell three times to check on your mother’s... schedule for tomorrow, and it went straight to voicemail."
"I ran into him on my way out of the house at five," I lied smoothly, handing her a fresh flute of champagne. "He dropped his phone in the fountain out front. Completely fried the motherboard. He said he was going to stay up in the East Wing guest room until tomorrow night to make sure my mother remains completely comfortable while we’re at the St. Regis."
The tension in Vanessa’s shoulders instantly melted away. "Oh! Thank goodness. He really is so dedicated, isn't he?"
"Worth every penny," I said, clinking my glass against hers. "In fact, I’m thinking of giving him a permanent residency starting tomorrow."
Across the room, the heavy glass doors of the conservatory swung open, and Julian Sterling strolled in. He wasn't even on the rehearsal dinner guest list—he was only invited to the wedding reception tomorrow—but desperation was clearly making him sloppy. His eyes were bloodshot beneath his designer sunglasses, which he quickly pocketed, and he headed straight toward the bar while shooting Vanessa a frantic look.
"Excuse me for just a moment, sweetheart," Vanessa purred, patting my chest. "My maid of honor just spilled red wine on her wrap, I need to help her in the powder room."
I watched her slip behind the towering floral arrangements toward the service corridor near the restrooms, with Julian following ten seconds later.
Instead of following them—Ryan’s directional microphones were already capturing every desperate hiss of their conversation—I tapped my butter knife three times against my crystal glass.
The chatter in the room died down. Fifty pairs of eyes turned toward me at the head table just as Vanessa hurried back out of the corridor, smoothing down the front of her white dress, her lipstick slightly smudged at the corner.
"Wait for me, darling!" she laughed breathlessly, taking her place beside me under the spotlight.
"I just wanted to thank everyone for coming tonight," I began, my voice carrying effortlessly across the silent dining room. "A year ago, when Vanessa walked into my life, I thought I knew who I was, and I thought I knew what mattered in this world. I looked at the surface of things—pedigree, presentation, the shine of a diamond under ballroom lights."
Vanessa beamed, laying her head on my shoulder and dabbing delicately at a completely dry eye for the benefit of the crowd. A chorus of sympathetic "Awws" rippled through the tables.
"But the last few days have taught me something profound," I continued, looking directly over the heads of the guests to the back corner near the bar, where Julian stood frozen with a scotch in his hand. "They’ve taught me that loyalty isn't tested when the lights are bright. It’s tested behind closed doors, when someone thinks no one is watching. It’s tested in how we treat the most vulnerable among us—an ailing parent who can't speak for herself, or a child who has no defense against cruelty."
Beside me, Vanessa’s smile stiffened by half a millimeter. Her fingers dug slightly into my biceps.
"Tomorrow, at the altar of St. Regis," I said, raising my glass high, "every mask is coming off. Tomorrow, everyone in this room is going to see the exact truth of who we are, and everyone is going to get exactly what they have earned. To tomorrow."
"To tomorrow!" the room cheered, glasses clinking around us.
As the band struck up a jazz standard and the guests returned to their conversations, Vanessa leaned up on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear, a thread of genuine unease finally cracking her composure. "That was a remarkably dark toast for a wedding rehearsal, Logan. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?"
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I looked down into her cold blue eyes and smiled. "Never better, sweetheart. Get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow is going to be the biggest day of your life."
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