Chapter 3 - The Country Club Stare Down
The Kensington estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, was less of a home and more of a private fortress disguised as a French chateau. Acres of manicured emerald lawns rolled toward a private lake, guarded by towering wrought-iron gates bearing the Kensington crest.
Valets in matching white waistcoats moved like clockwork, parking Aston Martins, Bentleys, and vintage Mercedes. The air smelled of freshly mown rye grass, sea salt drifting from the Sound, and the staggering weight of generational wealth.
I stepped out of the transport shuttle into the bright midday sun.
Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. Guests milling about the stone terrace—men in bespoke morning suits and women in pastel designer fascinators—turned their heads. The quiet hum of conversation died down to a low murmur.
"Is that... real?" a woman in an emerald Givenchy hat whispered to her husband, peering through tortoise-shell sunglasses.
"Look at the chest," her husband replied, squinting. "That's not a costume. My God, look at the collar."
I kept my spine locked, my eyes fixed at the horizon, marching up the limestone steps with measured, thirty-inch strides. Every step was deliberate. I wasn’t just walking into a wedding; I was patrolling contested ground.
In the grand foyer, Margot and Emmett were already waiting, having taken the limousine ahead of me. Margot’s eyes were bloodshot behind her heavy makeup. When she saw me enter, she immediately signaled to one of the floor coordinators—a young man with an earpiece who looked terrified of her.
"Escort her," Margot hissed to the young man, pointing an accusing finger toward me. "Take her through the side entrance to the back tier. She is not to mingle on the lawn."
The poor coordinator approached me, swallowing hard. "Ma'am? If you could follow me to the garden pavilion seating..."
"Lead the way," I said calmly.
He led me toward the rear of the outdoor amphitheater where two hundred white chivari chairs were arranged overlooking the lake. True to Spencer’s threat, my seat was at the very periphery, tucked behind a massive stone urn overflowing with weeping ivy and white hydrangeas. Table twenty-two for the reception, and the outer rim for the ceremony.
I took my seat, placing my white cover flat on my lap.
Around me, the whispers intensified. Several middle-aged men with military pins in their lapels kept glancing back at me, their brows furrowed, pointing out my ribbons to their companions. Margot, seated in the prime front row next to Emmett, kept checking over her shoulder, glaring at me as if willing me to combust under the sunlight.
Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic thump echoed across the flagstone patio.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
It was the sound of a heavy, brass-tipped walking cane.
The crowd parted instantly. Even the haughtiest dowagers stepped back with deferential smiles. Walking up the center aisle was an imposing figure—a man in his late seventies, broad-shouldered despite a pronounced limp, his silver hair cropped close to his skull in a classic high-and-tight. He wore a dark charcoal suit, but in his lapel was a discreet, crimson-and-gold rosette.
Beside him walked Victoria Kensington, the bride, glowing in silk lace, holding her grandfather's free arm.
The old man stopped. He didn’t look at the altar. He didn’t look at Spencer, who was standing beside the officiant, smiling desperately like a puppy waiting for a biscuit.
The old man’s steel-gray eyes scanned the crowd, moving row by row, until they caught the scarlet piping and the flash of polished brass tucked behind the hydrangeas.
He froze.
"Grandfather?" Victoria murmured, pausing beside him. "Is something wrong?"
The old man didn’t answer her. He turned his body completely away from the aisle, altering his course, and began walking directly toward the back row.
May you like
Toward me.
***