Chapter 2 - The Whispering Gallery
The reception was held inside the Grand Pavilion of the Whitlock Estate, a massive structure of iron and glass that looked like a Victorian winter garden. Thousands of imported white orchids hung from the vaulted ceiling, their delicate scent fighting against the expensive perfumes of the three hundred guests.
I did not go to the bridal suite to change, nor did I hide. I walked straight into the cocktail hour.
The reaction was immediate. In a sea of muted pastels, bespoke tuxedos, and diamond jewelry, my neon orange polyester dress looked like a flare fired in a dark forest. People literally stepped back as I passed, clearing a path as if I were carrying something contagious.
"Is that a joke?" a man in a double-breasted suit whispered to his wife.
"Perhaps she’s some sort of performance artist," the wife replied, adjusting her emerald necklace. "Or maybe... well, you know what Sloan said about her sister."
I kept my head high, grabbing a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter’s tray. I did not look for my family. I knew exactly where they would be—hovering around the head table, trying to cement their positions with the Whitlock patriarchs.
I found my seating assignment at the very back of the pavilion, near the service kitchen doors. Table 32.
The other occupants of Table 32 were the hired string quartet who had played during the ceremony, the wedding planner's off-duty assistant, and an empty chair.
"Nice pins," a voice said.
I turned. It was the cellist, a young man with tired eyes and a wry smile. He was looking at the silver safety pins holding the heavy orange fabric tight against my ribs.
"Military surplus," I said, taking a sip of my water. "They hold up under pressure."
"Clearly," he murmured. "I’m Leo. We were told we’d be eating in the staff tent, but apparently, there was a mix-up. Though, looking at your dress, I think you might have gotten the worse end of the seating chart."
"My sister wanted to make sure I was visible," I said. "But not included."
Before Leo could answer, the double doors of the pavilion opened, and the wedding party was announced.
Sloan and Daniel entered under a shower of white rose petals. Sloan looked radiant in her French lace gown, her smile wide and perfect. Daniel looked handsome, though his posture was slightly stiff—the classic look of a man who had been raised to value appearance over substance.
My mother and father followed close behind, beaming as if they had personally built the Whitlock fortune. My mother’s eyes scanned the room, landing on me at the back table. For a second, her smile faltered, replaced by a cold, warning look that said, Don’t you dare make a scene.
I didn’t. I sat down and watched the show.
Ten minutes later, Sloan and Daniel made their way to the head table. On their way, they passed Table 1, where Daniel’s family sat.
I watched as Sloan leaned down to speak to an elderly woman seated at the center of the table. The woman was dressed in a simple, charcoal-grey silk suit, wearing no jewelry except for a small, gold signet ring on her left hand. She sat incredibly straight, her silver hair styled in a neat, timeless bob.
This was Eleanor Whitlock. The matriarch. The woman who held the keys to the Whitlock trusts, the family foundations, and the historical estates.
Sloan whispered something in Eleanor's ear, then pointed directly toward Table 32. Toward me.
Eleanor turned her head. Her sharp, pale-blue eyes locked onto mine across the crowded room. She did not look disgusted, nor did she look amused. Her expression was entirely unreadable—the face of a general assessing a map.
Sloan said a few more words, her hand resting on her chest in a gesture of faux-sympathy. I could practically read her lips: “The army... sad, really... unstable.”
Eleanor watched me for three long seconds. Then, she slowly nodded to Sloan, who smiled triumphantly and moved on.
"You've got an admirer," Leo whispered, noticing the exchange.
"That's the dragon," I said softly. "The one Sloan’s been trying to tame for eighteen months."
"Well," Leo said, looking toward the head table where my mother was now loudly laughing at something Daniel’s father had said. "It looks like the dragon is making a move."
May you like
I looked up. Eleanor Whitlock was standing. She dismissed the waiter who offered her an arm, picked up her glass of dry sherry, and began walking slowly but deliberately toward the back of the room.
Directly toward Table 32.
