Chapter 3: The Gathering Storm
The first heavy drops of rain began to pelt the stone pavers, darkening the white satin ribbons on the chairs.
A resort manager in a sharp charcoal suit stepped out onto the patio, holding an electronic card terminal. He looked directly at Trent.
""Sir,"" the manager said politely. ""The kitchen requires an immediate payment of forty-two thousand dollars to begin food service, and the estate rental fee of forty thousand remains outstanding. Shall I process your card?""
Trent swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. ""I... our liquid capital is currently tied up in short-term offshore securities until the first of the month.""
""In other words,"" Nora said, stepping past the circle of guests, ""you don't have forty-two dollars, let alone forty-two thousand.""
Brooke turned to Trent, her mouth trembling, the illusion of his high-society wealth shattering in real-time. ""Trent? What is he talking about? You told me your family trust covered the entire reception!""
""Brooke, listen, it’s a temporary liquidity bottleneck—""
""You lied to me!"" Brooke shrieked, dropping her bouquet onto the wet stones, where the white roses bruised against the dark granite.
Nora did not stay to watch the theater of collapse.
She walked down the stone pathway toward the parking lot, the rain misting her black shirt. She reached her modest, reliable dark station wagon, opened the door, and slipped inside.
She looked in the rearview mirror.
Behind her, the two hundred guests were frantically scrambling under the canvas awnings as the summer storm broke in full force, lightning flashing across the churning waters of the lake, drowning the empty, decorated arbor in torrential grey rain.
May you like
Nora took a deep, clean breath, turned the key in the ignition, and drove away.
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