Chapter 5 - The Wedding of the CenturySaturday morning arrived with the oppressive, humid heat typical of a Savannah June.
St. Jude’s Cathedral loomed against the pale sky like a monument of stone and unyielding judgment. Its towering stained-glass windows cast long, jewel-toned reflections across the manicured lawns where luxury sedans and stretch limousines were already discharging Savannah’s elite.
Inside, the cathedral was breathtaking. White orchids cascaded down every pew, and a string quartet played a solemn, beautiful classical arrangement near the altar. Three hundred guests—bankers, judges, politicians, and socialites—chatted in hushed, reverent tones, waiting for the groom to take his place and the bride to make her grand entrance.
At the front, standing beside the priest in a custom-tailored Tom Ford tuxedo, was Arthur Sterling.
He looked radiant, radiating the smug confidence of a man who believed he had successfully cheated death, the law, and his own flesh and blood. Every time he checked his luxury watch, a self-satisfied smile played across his lips. He was twenty minutes away from marrying into untold wealth and cementing his place at the top of Savannah society.
The side sacristy door opened quietly.
No one noticed three young girls walking in, dressed in simple black dresses, led by an old man with an iron cane and a federal investigator wearing a discreet lapel pin.
Lucy carried Rose’s framed photograph, holding it firmly against her chest like a badge of honor. Rachel walked to her left, holding April’s hand.
They didn't sit in the back. They walked straight down the center aisle, moving past stunned socialites who turned their heads in sudden, collective shock. Gasps rippled through the pews. Whispers erupted like dry brushfires.
“Isn’t that... aren’t those Rose’s daughters?” “What are they doing here? Where is Arthur’s family?” “Good lord, didn't their mother just get buried last week?”
Arthur froze at the altar. His face drained of color, turning the shade of spoiled milk as he stared down the aisle. His mouth opened to speak, but no sound came out.
From the front row, District Attorney Thomas Vance bolted upright, his face flushed with sudden fury, signaling two private security guards to intercept us.
"Stop right there!" Vance barked, stepping into the aisle. "This is a private, ticketed ceremony. Remove these children immediately!"
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Marcus Vance stepped forward, flashing a gold federal badge that glinted sharply under the cathedral chandeliers.
"Federal Agent Marcus Vance, U.S. Department of Justice," Marcus announced, his voice carrying clearly into the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling. "Nobody moves. Nobody leaves."
