Mason’s hand twitched, his fingers slipping off my arm as he caught the strange, blank look in my eyes. The casual mockery in his voice hardened into suspicion.
“Claire,” he said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped closer. “What the hell are you doing with your phone?”
I didn't flinch. I swiped open the screen, my thumb hovering over the contact labeled Outside Counsel – Marcus Vance.
“I told you,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room like a scalpel. “I’m calling my ride.”
“Put the phone down,” Mason hissed, lunging forward with a sudden, violent snap.
He was fast—he had always been fast when he wanted to assert control. His massive hand shot out to snatch the device from my palm, but I was faster. I pivoted on my heel, letting the heavy silk of my mother’s vintage wedding dress sweep across the base of the multi-tiered cake, sending crumbs flying.
“Mason! Stop her!” Diane shrieked from the front row, her face contorted with outrage. “The girl has lost her mind! She’s ruining her own reception!”
Across the room, my uncle Robert—who had always suspected Mason was a smooth-talking fraud—slowly lowered his champagne flute. He didn’t look away.
I hit call.
The phone rang twice before a deep, crisp voice answered on the other line.
“Vance here.”
“Marcus,” I said clearly, holding Mason’s frantic gaze. “Blue folder.”
A sharp intake of breath hissed through the receiver. “Confirmed, Claire. Triggering protocol now. Federal marshals and internal audit are moving in. Where are you?”
“Standing at the altar,” I replied, looking directly at my brand-new husband, whose face had just drained entirely of color. “And I’m checking out.”
Before Mason could tackle me, the heavy oak double doors of the ballroom blew open with a deafening crash.
