Chapter 1 - The Shattered Glass
The sound of crystal shattering against marble echoed from the second-story balcony down to the pristine lawns of the Montgomery estate.
For a second, nobody moved. The string quartet lowered their bows mid-phrase, their eyes locked on the entryway. Politicians, tech titans, and socialites—people who made a living hiding their feelings behind polite smiles—stood frozen with champagne flutes halfway to their lips.
I stood at the end of the white silk aisle, my emerald dress catching the afternoon sun. On my right, Liam held my hand with quiet confidence. On my left, Noah adjusted his tiny silk bow tie, while Caleb stood between them, looking around the sprawling garden as if he owned every inch of it.
Three five-year-old boys. Three sets of striking, unmistakable Montgomery gray eyes. Three identical faces that looked as if Ethan’s childhood photographs had been brought to life.
"Mama," Caleb whispered, leaning close to my skirt. "Why is everyone looking at us like we're dinosaurs?"
"Because, sweetie," I said, my voice smooth, carrying effortlessly across the silent lawn, "some people have never seen real royalty before."
Up on the balcony, Eleanor Montgomery’s face had drained of all color. Her manicured hands gripped the stone railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. Beside her, Caroline Hastings—the bride-to-back, draped in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar French lace gown—looked back and forth between Eleanor and my sons, her expression shifting from confusion to cold horror.
"Who is that woman?" Caroline demanded, her voice sharp enough to slice through the silence. "Eleanor, who is that?"
Before Eleanor could form a sentence, the heavy carved doors of the main estate swung open.
Ethan Montgomery stepped out onto the terrace. He was wearing a dark Tom Ford tuxedo, looking every bit the polished heir to the Montgomery name—until his gaze swept down to the foot of the lawn and locked onto me.
And then onto the three boys standing by my side.
Ethan stopped dead in his tracks. The color vanished from his cheeks. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His gray eyes—the exact shade of Liam's, Noah's, and Caleb's—widened in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
"Maya?" Ethan rasped, taking a hesitant step toward the terrace stairs. "What... what is this?"
I didn't answer him. Instead, I gave the usher at the entrance a serene smile. The young man, trembling slightly under the weight of the moment, looked down at his clipboard with a sweat-beaded forehead.
"Table 27, I believe?" I asked pleasantly. "Beside the kitchen doors?"
A ripple of nervous murmuring spread through the front rows. Several high-society women turned to whisper behind their silk fans. Everyone in Chicago knew what Table 27 meant. It was the designated trash seat—the place where unwanted exes and distant cousins were buried out of sight.
"Mrs. Montgomery... I mean, Ms. Vance," the usher stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward Eleanor. "I... I can arrange a different—"
"No need," I interrupted smoothly, resting a light, motherly hand on Noah’s shoulder. "Table 27 will do just fine. My sons love watching how the help works. It builds character."
With that, I held my head high and led Liam, Noah, and Caleb down the central aisle.
Every head turned as we walked past. The scent of white roses was thick in the air, but the atmosphere felt like an arctic freeze. As we passed Table 1—where the Hastings political family sat in stunned silence—U.S. Senator William Hastings leaned over to his wife, his jaw set in an angry line.
"Is that Ethan's ex-wife?" the Senator growled loudly enough for the surrounding tables to hear. "And who the hell are those children?"
I didn't break my stride. We reached Table 27, positioned directly next to the swinging double doors of the estate kitchen. Service staff peered through the small round windows in shock, holding trays of hors d'oeuvres.
I pulled out a chair for Liam, then for Noah and Caleb, before taking my own seat facing the main stage.
May you like
"Mama," Noah murmured, pointing at the towering seven-tier wedding cake near the gazebo. "Can we have cake later?"
"Of course, Noah," I said, catching Ethan’s eyes as he descended the terrace stairs toward us like a man walking in a dream. "We're going to have our cake. And we're going to eat every single piece of it."
