Chapter 1 - The Photograph of a Lie
He reached out his hand.
Blair took it.
She did not hesitate. She placed her fingers in his palm with the practiced ease of a woman who had done it a thousand times in the dark. Vance pulled her gently from her chair, his eyes fixed entirely on her face, completely oblivious to the three hundred guests whose collective gasp sucked the oxygen straight out of the ballroom.
If a photographer had captured that exact fraction of a second—a tableau permanently etched in my mind as —they would have seen a masterpiece of deception. In the foreground, there I was: the sacrificial bride in a suffocating gown, my chest heaving, a single, agonizing tear shining on my cheek. Over my shoulder, in the blurred background of the grand hall, stood Vance in his immaculate tuxedo, holding the microphone and gripping the hand of my sister, whose crimson dress was practically glowing under the chandeliers.
To the untrained eye, it looked like a tragedy. It looked like the moment a docile, heartbroken woman watched her fairytale shatter.
But that tear wasn't grief.
It was the physical sensation of the last tether of my loyalty violently snapping.
Vance pulled Blair into the center of the dance floor. The string quartet, utterly confused and terrified to stop playing, continued their slow, romantic waltz. Blair rested her head on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, burying his face in her hair.
May you like
I did not scream. I did not run toward the double doors. I slowly turned my head away from the dance floor and looked directly at my father.
Magnus Sterling was still smiling.
