Chapter 1 - The Shattered Champagne Flute
The first thing I saw was a pale tablet disappearing into a crystal champagne flute.
The second thing I saw was the woman holding it turning toward my future sister-in-law with a smile.
I had approximately one heartbeat to decide whether to trust my eyes.
I chose my eyes.
"DON'T GIVE HER THAT DRINK!" I screamed.
My silver heel struck the bridesmaid's lower leg as she stepped away from the champagne station.
Celeste Rowe lost her balance, lurched across the white marble terrace, and fell hard onto one hip.
The flute flew from her fingers and shattered close to a planter overflowing with white roses.
Champagne spread in bright fingers across the floor.
Thirty wedding guests went silent so abruptly that I heard one final shard skitter beneath the serving tray.
I was Lucy Vale, twenty-one years old, dressed in pale-blue satin, and suddenly aware that everyone at my brother's wedding was staring at me as though I had lost my mind.
Celeste was thirty, glamorous, and supposedly Isabelle's dearest friend.
She had helped arrange the bridal shower, chosen the flower ribbons, and cried during the rehearsal dinner.
Just moments earlier, she had been complimenting the delicate lace on Isabelle's gown.
Now she was staring up at me with a hatred so naked that it made my stomach twist.
"You little bitch!" she shouted.
She sprang up, crossed the short distance between us, and slapped me across the face.
The impact snapped my head sideways and drove me backward into the dessert table.
Porcelain plates dropped to the terrace, a flower arrangement tipped, and the three-tier cake tilted dangerously on its stand.
I seized the edge of the table before my knees could buckle.
The left side of my face burned.
Celeste came at me again with her hand raised.
Then a black sleeve flashed across my vision.
My older brother Adrian caught her wrist before she could strike me a second time.
"GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SISTER!" he roared.
He was thirty-five, broad-shouldered, and still wearing the black tuxedo he had selected for the happiest day of his life.
His blue eyes had gone cold with a fury I had seen only once before, when a driver nearly struck me as a child.
He guided Celeste away from me and released her as soon as there was space between us.
"Lucy, are you hurt?" he demanded.
I could hardly feel my cheek through the pounding in my chest.
"The camera," I said, pointing over his shoulder.
A discreet security camera watched the champagne station from beneath a terrace beam.
"She put something in Isabelle's drink."
Adrian turned toward the camera, and Celeste's face lost its color.
Across the terrace, Isabelle Hart stood beside the golden wedding arch in a white lace gown, her long blonde curls tucked beneath a veil.
Her expression changed from confusion to disbelief.
"Celeste?" she whispered.
The woman who had hugged her an hour ago suddenly spun and ran toward the reception exit.
Guests scattered as she pushed between them.
Her shoulder struck the tall champagne tower beside the walkway.
Crystal glasses collapsed like an avalanche, bursting against marble in a succession of sharp crashes.
Celeste stumbled beside the wreckage, trapped for a moment between the tower stand and a line of terrified guests.
Adrian moved between her and Isabelle.
"Marcus," he called to his head of security, a forty-two-year-old former investigator in a dark suit.
"Keep her here and call the police."
Marcus Reed immediately directed two officers toward the exits while leaving the emergency routes clear.
Adrian drew out his phone, his hands shaking with anger, and dialed.
That was when Isabelle caught Celeste looking past us.
A man in a gray suit stood near the turquoise swimming pool beneath the glow of hundreds of fairy lights.
He was neither shouting nor checking on anyone.
He was watching Celeste.
At her terrified glance, he turned away and began walking toward the service gate.
I pointed without thinking.
"Adrian, that man."
Marcus followed my gesture and spoke into his earpiece.
The stranger quickened his pace.
My brother took one step toward him, then stopped when Isabelle caught his arm.
"Don't leave me," she said.
He looked from the man to his bride, and he made the choice that told me what kind of husband he intended to be.
He stayed with her.
The man disappeared behind a row of cypress trees before security could reach the gate.
My cheek throbbed, champagne soaked the marble beneath my heels, and the ruined dessert table smelled absurdly sweet.
I thought of the way Celeste had lowered her hand over the flute with practiced ease.
I had been standing at the station because Isabelle had asked me to fetch water for our grandmother.
One ordinary errand had placed me close enough to see a crime taking shape.
Had I approached from the other direction, I might have seen nothing.
Had I hesitated, Isabelle might have accepted the drink from the woman she trusted most.
I looked at the broken flute, afraid someone would sweep it into the rest of the shattered glass.
"Nobody touch that area," I told Marcus.
He nodded and directed guests away from the champagne station.
When Isabelle moved toward me, she lifted a trembling hand to my swollen cheek.
"You stopped her," she whispered.
"I saw her put something in your glass."
"What was it?"
"I don't know."
Those were the hardest words I had spoken all evening.
I wanted to give her certainty, to explain why a friend would do such a thing, and to promise that the danger had ended.
Instead, I could offer only the truth.
Adrian wrapped one arm around Isabelle and reached for my hand with the other.
He had spent months planning this wedding beside the swimming pool of our family's mansion, arguing lovingly with Isabelle about flowers and music.
He had wanted a private ceremony, but she had hoped to gather everyone who had supported her since her father's death.
Celeste had been at the center of those preparations.
When the first police cars arrived, our guests stood in awkward clusters among toppled decorations and puddles of champagne.
The band had stopped playing.
The flowers still smelled fresh.
The golden arch remained beautifully framed against the evening sky, as if nothing had happened.
An officer placed Celeste beside a low wall while another began taking names.
She looked at Isabelle once, her expression suddenly pleading.
"I can explain," she said.
Isabelle's voice trembled.
"Then start."
Celeste lowered her eyes.
She gave no explanation.
I watched her look toward the service gate again, and the realization came with a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
May you like
She was not afraid of Adrian.
She was afraid of the man who had walked away.
