“I have a source,” Giles stammered, intimidated but refusing to back down. “Vanessa Carter is willing to go on the record. She says she was the mastermind behind Carter Petals, and you ruined her life to elevate your mistress.”
“My wife,” Julian corrected smoothly, the word echoing loudly. “Emily is my wife. And your source is a convicted felon.”
Julian pulled his phone from his tuxedo pocket and tapped the screen twice. “Alistair Croft tried a similar tactic a few years ago. It didn’t end well for him. Let’s see how it ends for you.” He held the phone up, connecting it to the terrace’s state-of-the-art audio system.
“What are you doing?” the Duchess demanded, her composure cracking.
“Clearing my wife’s name,” Julian said coldly. He pressed play.
The speakers crackled, and suddenly, my sister’s voice filled the Monte-Carlo terrace. But it wasn’t the confident, polished lie she had fed the reporter. It was the frantic, sobbing audio recording from a deposition three years ago, a recording made legally during her embezzlement trial.
“I didn’t design any of it!” Vanessa’s voice wailed through the speakers, echoing off the marble balustrades. “I don’t know anything about flowers! Emily did it all. I just took the sketches from her shop and told Julian they were mine. I’m sorry! I just wanted the commission money to pay off my credit cards. Please don’t send me to jail!”
The silence on the terrace was absolute. The Dowager Duchess’s face drained of all color, turning the exact shade of the marble columns behind her. The reporter, Rupert Giles, looked at his recorder, realizing his “exclusive scoop” was a complete fabrication that was about to cost him his career.
Julian cut the audio. He looked at Giles with dead, shark-like eyes. “Vanessa Carter is currently serving five years of heavily monitored probation for corporate fraud and grand larceny. If you print a single word of her lies, I will not just sue your publication. I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your life writing obituaries for a free weekly paper in a town with a population of fifty.”
Giles swallowed hard, the bravado evaporating. He turned and practically ran toward the exit, pushing past the stunned security guards.
Princess Elara turned her furious gaze upon her aunt. “Aunt Beatrice. You allowed a tabloid rat into my rehearsal dinner based on the ravings of a convicted criminal, simply because you did not like Ms. Carter’s choice of foliage?”
“Elara, I—I was only protecting the dignity of the crown,” the Duchess stammered, clutching her pearl necklace.
“You have embarrassed me. You have embarrassed our guests. And you have insulted the artists I personally selected,” the Princess said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly royal register. “You will not attend the wedding tomorrow. You will remain in your villa. Is that understood?”
The Duchess looked as though she had been struck by lightning. She looked around for support, but the elite crowd had already turned their backs on her, the ultimate aristocratic shunning. Humiliated, defeated by her own malice, she bowed her head tightly and scurried away into the casino.
The tension broke. The jazz band awkwardly resumed playing, and the crowd slowly returned to their conversations, though lingering glances of awe were cast in our direction.
Princess Elara turned to me, her expression softening. “Emily. I am so deeply sorry. I had no idea my aunt would stoop to such appalling depths.”
I took a deep breath, the lingering ghosts of my past finally, permanently dissolving into the warm Mediterranean breeze. I smiled, a genuine, radiant smile. “There is no need to apologize, Your Highness. I’m used to dealing with weeds. You just have to know how to pull them out by the root.”
The Princess laughed, a bright, ringing sound. “I can’t wait to see the cathedral tomorrow. I know it will be spectacular.”
As the Princess walked away to mingle with her other guests, Julian pulled me close, wrapping both arms around me. The emerald silk of my dress rustled against his tuxedo.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, searching my eyes.
“I’m more than okay,” I answered, leaning my head against his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. “I think Vanessa just gave me the best wedding gift she could have.”
Julian raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what was that?”
“Closure,” I murmured. “She tried her absolute best to destroy me on a global stage, and it amounted to nothing. She has no power over me anymore. None of them do.”
The next morning, the sun rose over a principality holding its breath.
When the heavy wooden doors of the Cathedral of Saint Nicholas were pushed open by the royal guards, an audible gasp rippled through the hundreds of gathered guests, dignitaries, and the millions watching on the live broadcast.
It was a masterpiece.
We had transformed the cold, imposing stone of the cathedral into an ethereal, living dreamscape. The massive silver-olive suspension arches floated weightlessly above the nave, casting intricate, dancing shadows across the ancient floors. Thousands of white ranunculus and delicate jasmine vines cascaded from the canopy, filling the air with a sweet, intoxicating perfume that perfectly balanced the scent of burning incense. It was modern yet deeply romantic, structural yet wildly organic. It defied gravity, convention, and every limitation the Dowager Duchess had tried to impose.
I stood in the discreet vendor alcove near the transept, holding Julian’s hand tightly as Princess Elara walked down the aisle. She looked radiant, an ethereal vision beneath the silver canopy I had built for her. When she reached the altar, she briefly looked up at the floating floral architecture, and then, subtly, she looked toward my alcove and offered a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of deep gratitude.
Tears pricked my eyes, but they were tears of pure, unadulterated triumph.
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