We continued our march toward the front. According to Eleanor’s meticulous, cruel planning, I was meant to slink through the side paths, completely unnoticed, and bury myself at Table 27 by the kitchen doors.
Instead, I walked right down the main aisle, leading my triplets directly toward the altar where the groom was waiting.
Ethan stood near the flower-entwined archway. Beside him was Caroline Hastings, looking radiant but suddenly deeply confused in her custom French lace bridal gown.
When Ethan’s eyes fell upon us, I watched the exact moment his reality fractured.
His gaze drifted from my emerald dress, up to my face, and then down. Down to Liam. To Noah. To Caleb.
His breath hitched. The color left his face so rapidly I thought he might faint right there on the white carpet. His hands dropped to his sides. He took a half-step forward, completely forgetting his bride, completely forgetting the U.S. Senator standing in the front row, completely forgetting the priest.
“Clara…?” his voice was barely a whisper, but in the dead silence of the estate, it echoed.
Five years ago, this man had sat in a leather chair, refusing to look at me while his mother’s lawyers handed me a pen to sign away my dignity. He had chosen his family’s wealth over our marriage. He had chosen cowardice.
Now, he was looking at the consequences of that cowardice. Three five-year-old consequences, wearing matching velvet tuxedos.
“Hello, Ethan,” I said, pausing just a few feet from the front row. My voice was calm, devoid of the anger I had carried for so long. There was only pure, chilling indifference. “Lovely wedding. The roses are a nice touch.”
“Who… who are they?” Caroline Hastings stepped forward, her perfectly manicured brow furrowing as she looked between Ethan and the boys. She wasn’t stupid. She saw the resemblance instantly. The political elite are trained to spot scandals before they break, and Caroline was realizing, in real-time, that she was standing in the middle of a nuclear blast zone. “Ethan? What is this? Who is this woman?”
Before Ethan could find his tongue, the sharp, rhythmic click-click-click of stilettos echoed aggressively against the stone path.
Eleanor Montgomery had descended from the balcony.
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