Mason froze, his hand still outstretched in mid-air. He looked from the police officers to the lead man in the lead suit—special agent Reynolds from the state financial crimes division, whom I had spoken to discreetly on Friday morning.
“Mason Vance?” Agent Reynolds called out, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
“There must be some mistake,” Mason sputtered, his charisma kicking in on instinct as he forced a tight, panicked smile. He stepped in front of me, attempting to block my path. “This is a private event. My wife—my wife—has had a minor emotional episode. We can handle this outside.”
“There’s no mistake, Mr. Vance,” Reynolds said, stepping past him without even breaking stride. He stopped directly in front of me, nodding respectfully. “Mrs. Vance. Thank you for your cooperation. The freeze orders on all personal and corporate accounts have been executed.”
Diane shoved her way through the parting crowd, her face flushed with righteous fury.
“How dare you!” she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Reynolds. “Do you know who my son is? He is the Vice President of Bellweather Development! He is practically family to the owners!”
“Actually, Diane,” a cold, smooth voice rang out from the back of the room.
My father, who had been sitting quietly in a wheelchair near the back entrance—a man Mason thought was too medicated and frail to notice anything—was being pushed forward by my sister, Elena. My father’s eyes were sharp, bright, and completely lucid.
“He isn't family anymore,” my father said quietly. “And as of twenty minutes ago, he isn't an employee either.”
Mason spun around, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Arthur... sir... you don't understand. Claire is lying. She’s unstable. Look at her—she’s covered in cake, she’s sabotaging our wedding out of pure jealousy!”
“Jealousy?” Elena sneered, tossing a thick manila folder right onto the pristine white tablecloth of the bridal table. “No, Mason. That’s called an audit.”
