men like Victor Vale had underestimated me because I wore simple black suits and spoke softly. They never asked what kind of consultant I was. They never asked why federal prosecutors still answered my calls. I touched Mara’s cheek. “Did he threaten you in writing?” Her eyes flickered. “Emails. Voice notes. Photos. I saved everything.” “Good girl.” “But we can’t cancel,” she sobbed. “He’ll destroy us.” I kissed her forehead. “Then we won’t cancel it,” I said. Mara stared at me. I looked at her reflection, then at the marks on her back. “We’ll let them walk straight into it.”…
Victor Vale arrived at the rehearsal dinner like a man who already owned tomorrow.
He wore a silver tie, a crocodile smile, and the confidence of someone who had purchased judges, bankers, and silence. Elian stood beside him, handsome and hollow, his hand resting too tightly on Mara’s waist.
When I entered, Victor lifted his glass.
“Ah, Clara,” he said. “The difficult sister.”
A few guests laughed because rich cowards always laugh on cue.
I smiled. “I prefer observant.”
Elian leaned toward me. “Try not to make a scene tomorrow. Mara needs one stable woman in her family.”
Mara flinched.
I saw it. So did he. He enjoyed it.
Victor’s smile sharpened. “Your parents built a charming little business. Shame how fragile small companies are. One missed payment, one nervous investor, one rumor…”
My father went pale. My mother lowered her eyes.
