Chapter 3 - Table 31
The back lawn of The Waves had been transformed into something resembling a royal garden party, if the royalty in question was obsessed with white roses and excessive security. A massive white silk pavilion stretched across the manicured grass, its open sides revealing a panoramic view of the dark ocean below. Five hundred white chiavari chairs were arranged in perfect rows, facing an altar constructed entirely of imported white orchids and pale marble.
At the entrance of the pavilion, a young usher in a formal tailcoat stood beside a massive brass easel holding the seating chart. He looked stressed, his white-gloved hand trembling slightly as he checked names off a leather-bound ledger.
"Name, please?" he asked, not looking up as I approached.
"Clara Vance," I said clearly.
The usher’s pen froze. He slowly lifted his eyes, his gaze sliding from the midnight-blue silk of my dress down to the three identical little boys standing at my skirts. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes darting frantically between the boys' faces and the ledger in his hands. He was young, probably a local college student hired for the weekend, but he clearly knew enough about the Rutherford family history to recognize a genetic ghost when he saw one.
"Uh... Ms. Vance," he stammered, his face turning a deep shade of crimson. "Yes. You are... let see... Table 31."
"Thank you," I said, offering him a cold, polite smile that I had learned from his employers. "Could you direct us there?"
"It’s... it’s all the way in the back, ma'am. Near the catering entrance. Just past the audio-visual booth."
"Perfect," I murmured.
We walked down the perimeter aisle of the pavilion, away from the prime seating near the front where the Rutherfords' close friends and political allies were already mingling. I could feel the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes locking onto our backs. The whispers followed us like a draft of cold air.
Table 31 was exactly where I expected it to be. It was a small, circular table tucked away in the darkest corner of the tent, so close to the service kitchen that I could hear the sharp clatter of silver spoons against porcelain and the tense, hushed arguments of the catering staff. There were no white orchids on our table; instead, a single, sad sprig of baby’s breath sat inside a glass vase that looked suspiciously chipped.
The other occupants of the table were already seated: a distant cousin of the bride who looked like he had been invited out of obligation, and an elderly logistics manager for Rutherford Holdings who was already deep into his second gin and tonic.
"Sit down, boys," I said softly, pulling out the chairs for them.
Owen climbed up first, his small legs dangling above the grass. He looked around the massive tent, his sharp mind already analyzing the layout. "Mom, why are we sitting so far away from the music?"
"Because some people think that if you sit in the back, you disappear, Owen," I said, sitting down between him and Miles. "But they forget that the people in the back have the best view of the whole room."
"I like the back," Bennett whispered, leaning over to grab a breadstick from the basket in the center of the table. "The kitchen smells like bacon."
I laughed, a real, genuine sound that drew a sharp look from the elderly logistics manager across from us. He stared at the boys, his glass stopping halfway to his mouth. He blinked twice, his eyes widening as he took in the dark, wavy hair and the distinct, unmistakable shape of their jawlines—a trait that had been captured in oil paintings hanging in the Rutherford boardroom for three generations.
"My God," the old man muttered, his voice barely a breath. "Julian?"
"No," I replied smoothly, leaning forward and resting my chin on my hand. "These are my sons. Owen, Miles, and Bennett Vance."
Before the man could recover his senses, a sudden, heavy hush fell over the entire pavilion. The string quartet at the front of the tent stopped playing their ambient Vivaldi and transitioned into a slow, solemn processional.
The ceremony was beginning.
I turned my head toward the center aisle, my heart executing a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. Through the gap in the white silk drapery, I saw the groom step out from the side conservatory of the main house.
Julian Rutherford.
He looked exactly the same, yet entirely different. At thirty-four, he was still the quintessential prince of Newport—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair immaculate, his tailored tuxedo fitting him like armor. But as he stood at the altar, waiting for his new bride, I noticed a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there two years ago. A faint, hard line had settled around his eyes, the unmistakable mark of a man who had spent the last twenty-four months living under the absolute, suffocating rule of his mother’s ambitions.
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He looked successful. He looked powerful.
And he had absolutely no idea that less than fifty yards away, three pieces of his own soul were watching him from the shadows of Table 31.
