I did not cry. I set the velvet box on the empty chair beside my mother, walked to the small side podium where the officiant kept the marriage license, and picked up the microphone Marcus had just used. “Before anyone signs anything,” I said, “I need to introduce myself properly. My name is on the deed of this estate. Ashford was my grandfather. This chapel, the vineyard, the twelve acres behind it, the catering company you hired, and the hotel where half of you are staying tonight belong to the Ashford Family Trust. I am the sole trustee as of March.” The room went silent. Marcus laughed once, nervous, and said I was lying. I nodded to the head of security at the back, a man who had known me since I was six. He walked forward with a tablet showing the trust documents on the projector screen behind the altar. Chelsea’s father, seated in the third row, stood up so fast his chair fell over. He was the regional manager of the wine distributor that had a three million dollar contract with Ashford Vineyards, up for renewal in nine days. Marcus’s mother started crying because her catering firm had just signed a five year exclusive with the estate. I looked at Marcus, still in his tuxedo, still holding Chelsea’s hand. “The wedding is off. So is the contract with your mother’s company. So is your job at Ashford Logistics. Security will escort you to collect your things from the cottage, which, by the way, is also mine.” Chelsea started screaming that she was pregnant, that I could not do this. I told her congratulations, and that the paternity of her child was not my problem, but the eight month affair she just confessed to on a live wedding stream absolutely was Marcus’s. My mother finally stood up, walked over, picked up the velvet box, and handed it to security as evidence. Then she took my arm and we walked back down the aisle together, past two hundred guests who suddenly could not meet my eyes.
