Chapter 3 - Table Twenty-Ten Turns the Tables
When we reached the base of the altar, Dominic finally found his voice. It came out as a strangled, breathless rasp.
"Maya..."
His eyes swept over the boys, lingering on Leo’s nose, Nathan’s jawline, and Cole’s intense, analytical gaze. The horror dawning in his eyes was a masterpiece of poetic justice.
"You... you had them," he whispered, stepping forward instinctively, as if he might reach out to touch them.
I stepped smoothly into his path, my emerald gown whispering against the stone, my gaze steady and unyielding.
"Good afternoon, Dominic," I said, my tone as cool and refreshing as a glass of iced lemonade on a scorching summer day. "Congratulations on the wedding. I received your mother’s very specific invitation. She was quite insistent that I have a front-row experience today."
Seraphina stepped forward, her veil rustling with agitation. "Dominic, what is the meaning of this? Who is this woman? And whose children are—?"
"They're mine, Seraphina," Dominic interrupted, his voice hollow, his face completely drained of color.
A collective gasp swept through the wedding party. The senator’s daughter looked as though she had been slapped across the face. Cameras flashed from the back of the garden as tabloid photographers—tipped off anonymously by my PR team that morning—captured every single agonizing second.
Before the chaos could completely consume the ceremony, Beatrice marched down from the upper balcony, her face contorted with suppressed fury. She pushed past the floral arrangements, her heels clicking like gunshots against the stone pathway.
"Maya," Beatrice hissed, her voice shaking with venom despite her forced smile for the cameras. "What kind of cheap, sensationalist stunt are you pulling here? Showing up unannounced with children you've manufactured out of thin air to sabotage my son's wedding?"
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I looked down at the older woman who had once told me I was 'flyweight trash' who would never amount to anything in Chicago.
"Manufactured, Beatrice?" I replied, my voice carrying clearly across the silent lawn. "A DNA test can be arranged before dinner if you're feeling forgetful. But I would think you’d recognize your late husband’s jawline anywhere. After all, you spent thirty years trying to control it."
Beatrice’s chest heaved. She opened her mouth to launch into a tirade, but I cut her off with a polite, dismissive nod.
"Now, if you'll excuse us, we wouldn't want to hold up the ceremony. Besides, I believe your seating coordinator gave us very specific instructions. Table Twenty-Seven, correct? Right beside the swinging kitchen doors. Very thoughtful of you to ensure we had easy access to the refreshments."
A few muffled coughs from the back row disguised what was clearly laughter.
Beatrice’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. "You—you were seated there because—"
"Because you wanted to humiliate me," I finished smoothly. "Too bad. My sons and I prefer a front-row view of the fireworks anyway."
Without waiting for her reply, I turned and guided the boys toward the grand reception pavilion. Behind us, the wedding descended into utter pandemonium.
The reception pavilion was a masterpiece of architectural excess—crystal chandeliers dripping from vaulted ceilings, gold-plated flatware at every setting, and massive floral arrangements imported directly from the Netherlands.
True to Beatrice’s malicious planning, Table Twenty-Seven was tucked away in the darkest, most miserable corner of the massive tent, directly beneath a blaring ceiling speaker and inches away from the heavy swinging doors where sweating catering staff rushed in and out with trays of hors d'oeuvres.
"Look, Mama!" Cole exclaimed, pointing up. "This table is right by the magic doors where the little plates disappear! Can we watch the chefs?"
"Of course, sweetie," I smiled, sitting down on the velvet-draped chair.
Within minutes, the rest of the guests filtered into the tent, avoiding our corner as if we carried a contagious disease. Dominic and Seraphina took their places at the high table on the raised dais, but neither of them looked at their food. Dominic stared straight ahead like a man walking to the electric chair, while Seraphina sat with her arms crossed, glaring across the room at our obscure corner.
Then, the doors of the pavilion opened again.
A tall, silver-haired man in an impeccably tailored Brioni suit walked in, accompanied by two junior associates carrying heavy leather portfolios.
It was Harrison Vance—Arthur Vance’s older brother and the senior managing partner of Vance Global Capital, one of the most powerful private equity firms in the world.
He scanned the crowded room, his eyes passing over senators, governors, and billionaires, until they landed precisely on Table Twenty-Seven.
A wide, genuine smile broke across Harrison’s stern face. He bypassed the head table entirely, ignoring Senator Hastings who stood up half-expecting a handshake, and walked straight down the center aisle toward the kitchen doors.
Every head in the room turned in stunned disbelief.
Harrison stopped at our table, placed his hands on the back of my chair, and bowed politely.
"Maya," Harrison said warmly, his booming voice carrying across the silent pavilion. "I was hoping I’d catch you before the opening market bell on Monday. The board meeting in Zurich went even better than projected. Your acquisition of Apex Logistics has officially cleared the antitrust committee. The Sterling family portfolio doesn't even know what’s about to hit them."
I looked up, offering a calm, professional smile. "Thank you, Harrison. Let's discuss the final asset transfer over Monday morning coffee. I trust the boys' trust funds are securely partitioned?"
"Locked and sealed," Harrison chuckled, before turning his gaze to my three sons. He pulled three small, velvet-lined boxes from his breast pocket and handed one to each boy. "And a little something for the young gentlemen. Future majority shareholders, if I'm not mistaken."
May you like
The silence in the pavilion was so absolute you could hear the ice melting in the champagne buckets.
At the head table, Beatrice Sterling gripped her water glass so hard the crystal finally snapped.
