Chapter 12 - The Third-Floor Dressing Suite
The third-floor hallway of the main house was dead silent, save for the muffled sound of distant classical string music playing from the lower ballroom where early catering staff were setting up tables for the morning ceremony. I climbed the winding mahogany staircase two steps at a time, the manila envelope clutched firmly in my left hand and the encrypted burner phone vibrating against my ribs. My tailored black suit was rumpled from a sleepless night, and my stubble had grown thick, but my mind was entirely clear. This was where the facade ended.
I bypassed the main double doors of the bridal suite, choosing instead to use the private service entrance through the linen alcove. The door clicked open silently. Inside, the suite was bathed in the soft, warm glow of Hollywood-style vanity lights. Silk dresses hung from the ornate armoires, and the air smelled heavily of expensive French perfume and hairspray. Genevieve stood before the massive gilded mirror, her pale blonde hair pinned into an intricate bridal chignon. She wore a satin robe over her shoulders, her reflection sharp and composed as she adjusted a diamond earring.
She didn't turn around immediately. She must have thought I was one of the stylists or coordinators. "Take the lace veil back to the tailor," Genevieve said, her voice smooth and devoid of any warmth. "The hem is half an inch too long. I won't have it dragging on the altar carpet."
"The tailor isn't coming today, Genevieve," I said.
Her hands froze on the earring. In the mirror, her eyes widened for a fraction of a second—a rare micro-expression of pure panic—before her face snapped instantly back into its familiar, practiced mask of serene grace. She turned slowly, pulling her satin robe tighter around her waist, and offered me a smile that didn't reach her cold blue eyes.
"Thomas," she said softly, stepping away from the vanity table. "You look dreadful. Did you stay up all night drinking with Dante again? Honestly, darling, today is supposed to be our day. The entire board of trustees arrives in two hours. You can't possibly walk down the aisle looking like a vagrant."
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"The board isn't coming to a wedding," I said, stepping closer and dropping the thick manila envelope onto her pristine white vanity table, right beside her bottle of imported perfume. "They're coming to read an injunction. And Sarah Miller sends her regards."
Genevieve looked down at the envelope. The color drained completely from her face, leaving her skin stark white beneath the vanity lights. The fragile illusion of her perfect life began to crumble right there on the polished hardwood floor.
