The Grand Ballroom at The Plaza Hotel in New York City was a masterpiece of Gilded Age architecture. Crystal chandeliers, heavy with history and light, suspended above a sea of imported white hydrangeas and gold-rimmed china. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of New York’s elite waiting for the wedding of the season.
I, Emily, stood in the private bridal suite’s bathroom, pressing a cool, damp towel to my neck. My reflection in the gilded mirror showed a woman who looked like a princess. My custom Vera Wang gown was a cloud of silk and lace, and the diamond tiara resting on my head was a family heirloom worth more than most houses.
I was ten minutes away from marrying Brandon Miller.
To the world, and to me, Brandon was perfect. He was charming, handsome, and seemingly devoted. But it was his mother, Mrs. Patricia Miller, whom I truly adored. She had welcomed me, a motherless heiress to a real estate empire, with open arms. She called me “daughter.” She fussed over my dress, my diet, and my happiness. She filled the void my own mother had left behind.
I had fled to the restroom not out of doubt, but out of overwhelming emotion. I needed a moment of quiet gratitude before walking down the aisle.
The heavy marble door of the restroom creaked open. I froze, instinctively stepping back into the furthest stall, not wanting to be seen by a guest while I was composing myself.
It was Chloe, Brandon’s younger sister and my maid of honor. Through the crack in the stall door, I saw her pull a compact from her purse to check her makeup. She didn’t look nervous or happy. She looked bored.
She pulled out her phone and dialed. She put it on speakerphone and set it on the marble counter while she reapplied her lipstick.
“Hey, Mom,” Chloe said. “Where are you? The orchestra is starting.”
The voice that crackled back through the speaker froze the blood in my veins. It was Mrs. Patricia, but the voice was wrong. Gone was the warm, honeyed tone of the doting mother-in-law. In its place was a harsh, grating cackle of triumph.
“I’m just finishing my champagne in the lobby,” Patricia said, her voice dripping with venom. “Has the little idiot signed the prenup waiver yet? I am physically sick of playing the saintly mother. My face hurts from smiling at her boring father.”
