Chapter 3 - The King of the Kids' Table
“Is this seat taken?” Emmett asked, his voice low, intimate, and carrying an unmistakable undertone of biting sarcasm.
Before I could answer, little Parker piped up, waving his blue crayon defensively. “No, but she’s helping me draw a dragon. You can’t sit here unless you know how to draw a tail.”
A muffled snort erupted from somewhere near the head table—one of Nicholas’s college buddies trying to suppress a laugh, thinking Emmett would be mortified. Instead, Emmett Stewart did something that made three hundred wealthy socialites question their understanding of reality.
He pulled out the tiny, brightly colored plastic chair—the kind designed for a four-year-old—and sat down.
His long legs had to bend at an absurd, painful angle, his knees nearly hitting his chin, but he didn't care. He folded his hands on the sticky white tablecloth, right next to a half-eaten chicken nugget and a puddle of spilled ketchup, and looked directly into my eyes.
“You’re hard to track down, Jenna,” Emmett said, ignoring the stunned silence radiating from the rest of the room. “I sent three emails regarding the Q3 projections for the quantum encryption rollout. Not a single reply. I had to track your IP address to a local bridal registry just to find out where you were hiding.”
“I’m on bereavement leave,” I replied dryly, swirling my straw in a juice box. “My brother’s wedding counts as a tragedy, right?”
Emmett let out a short, genuine laugh—a sound so rare that Great-Aunt Beatrice actually woke up, blinked twice, and fell right back asleep.
“A tragedy is putting it mildly,” Emmett said, his dark eyes shifting across the room to where Nicholas was now marching down the aisle, his face a mask of blind panic and murderous rage. My brother looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel.
“Mr. Stewart—Emmett—please,” Nicholas stammered, skidding to a halt right beside Table Nineteen, huffing for breath. He looked down at the billionaire sitting in a toddler’s chair and then at me, his expression twisting in utter incomprehension. “There’s been a massive misunderstanding. The seating chart... it was generated by an automated wedding app! It had glitches! We have a real table set up for you right up front, next to the mayor! Please, let me escort you away from... from this mess.”
Emmett didn't look up at Nicholas. He kept his gaze locked on me, slowly picking up my blue crayon and turning it over in his large, powerful fingers.
“An automated app,” Emmett repeated flatly. “Is that what put the bride’s sister at the table with the toddlers and the cold nuggets?”
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“She wanted to be here!” Nicholas lied through his teeth, his voice cracking with desperation. “She loves children! She’s... she’s eccentric! Ask her, Emmett! Jenna, tell him!”
I looked up slowly, meeting my brother's terrified, pleading eyes. The man who had whispered ‘Don’t ruin the image’ just twenty minutes ago now looked like a beggar pleading for scraps of dignity.
