Chapter 2 - The Ghost at the TableThe rehearsal dinner at The Gilded Spoon was a masterclass in vulgar opulence. Crystal chandeliers dripped like icicles, and ice sculptures shaped like interlocking initials—A & C—slowly wept onto white linen tablecloths.
I didn’t use the front entrance. I slipped in through the service corridor, the heavy leather folder clutched securely against my ribs like a shield. My white trench coat was buttoned to the chin, hiding the brutal, breathtaking cut of the backless silk gown beneath it.
Across the room, standing under a canopy of white roses, Adrian looked radiant in a custom Tom Ford tux. Beside him, Celeste was draped in a suffocating gown of champagne lace that strained visibly over her seven-month belly. She looked like a prize-winning mare, smug and bloated with stolen triumph.
“Look who crawled out of the woodwork,” Adrian’s mother, Evelyn, sneered, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin as I glided past her table. “I heard you were living in some dreary little studio apartment, Mia. Traumatized, they said. How tragic that some women simply can’t handle the natural progression of a successful man.”
I stopped, turning slowly to face the matriarch who had called me barren for half a decade.
“Hello, Evelyn,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, rich with a terrifying amusement. “You might want to savor the vintage on that champagne. It’s likely the last expensive thing you’ll taste for a very, very long time.”
Adrian caught sight of me then. The smile froze on his face, his glass halting halfway to his mouth. For a second, just a fraction of a second, the swagger faltered. He saw the way I held myself—not like a discarded wife, but like a judge stepping into a courtroom.
“Mia,” he barked, striding over with a forced, dangerous grin. “I told you to dress modestly. What is that?”
“Elegance, Adrian,” I whispered, stepping close enough for him to catch the scent of expensive French vanilla and cold, dead air. “You always did have terrible taste. You wouldn’t recognize class if it hit you with a subpoena.”
“You’re out of your mind,” he hissed under his breath, his fingers digging painfully into my elbow. “Get out before I have security throw you into the street.”
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“Touch me again, Adrian, and I won’t just ruin your wedding,” I murmured, my eyes locking onto his with the frozen fury of an avalanche. “I’ll make sure you spend your honeymoon behind glass bars.”
He dropped his hand as if my skin were burning hot.
