The Vance Conservatory was a cathedral of glass and steel, filled with the scent of thousands of white orchids–William’s demand for a “clean slate” made manifest. A string quartet played a soft, haunting melody that echoed off the acoustic panels William and Sophie had designed together.
The heavy doors opened.
Sophie stepped onto the white runner. The flashbulbs blinded her for a second, a sea of light capturing the “fairytale” ending the world wanted to see.
She looked down the aisle. William stood at the altar, looking at her with a reverence that took her breath away. But as she walked, her gaze flickered to the front row.
Lady Beatrice sat there, leaning on her cane. She wasn’t smiling. She fixed Sophie with a cold, predatory stare, her hand resting on her purse where the dossier of Sophie’s betrayal presumably lay. The grandmother’s eyes promised that this happiness was a loan, and the interest was due. Sophie shivered, forced a smile for the cameras, and kept walking toward the man she was deceiving to save.