Chapter 6: The Wedding That Was Never Hers to Cancel
Alonzo walked back into the ballroom.
The guests were standing in uncertain clusters near the exits.
Some had their coats already on.
The wedding planner was speaking rapidly into her earpiece near the far wall.
Two waiters stood frozen beside a cart of untouched champagne.
Portia was at the center of the room.
She had not left.
She had positioned herself near the main table, speaking quietly to a small group of older guests — Cedric's associates, men and women who had known the family for decades.
Alonzo crossed the floor toward her.
The guests nearest him stepped back without being asked.
"You told people the wedding was cancelled," he said.
Portia turned to face him.
"I told them there had been a family matter and that the ceremony would be postponed."
"That wasn't your decision."
"Someone had to say something.
You left two hundred people standing in silence."
"For fifteen minutes," he said.
"While we handled a situation you created."
One of the older men near Portia — grey-suited, heavy-jowled, the kind of man who had attended every Cedric family event for thirty years — cleared his throat.
"Alonzo," he said carefully.
"Perhaps today isn't the right—"
"The wedding is not cancelled," Alonzo said.
He said it to the room, not to the man.
"We had a family matter to address.
It has been addressed.
If our guests would like to be seated, we will continue."
Portia's voice was very controlled.
"The officiant left."
"Did you ask them to leave?"
A pause.
"I suggested they might want to step outside."
Alonzo looked at the wedding planner across the room.
She was already on her phone, nodding quickly.
He turned back to Portia.
"You came to this wedding knowing what was hidden in that vase," he said.
"You spent the morning positioning yourself near it.
You had your lawyers on standby.
You had the probate filing ready." He kept his voice level.
"You planned all of this before you walked through that door."
"I planned to protect my family's interests," she said.
"By forging your father's signature."
"That has not been proven."
"By hiding a letter your stepmother left for her own protection."
"I hid nothing.
The vase was decorative."
"By sl\*pping a seven-year-old child."
Portia's composure cracked — not much, just at the edges.
"That child was careless with an irreplaceable—"
"She's seven," Alonzo said.
"And you knocked her to the ground.
In front of everyone in this room."
The grey-suited man had gone quiet.
The woman beside him had taken a small step away from Portia.
Portia looked around the room.
She read it the way a person reads a room when they realize the audience has shifted.
"You're making a scene," she said to Alonzo.
"You made the scene," he said.
"I'm just finishing it."
He turned to the room again.
"Please be seated.
We'll begin in ten minutes."
People moved.
Slowly at first, then with more purpose.
The wedding planner was already walking back toward the entrance, speaking into her earpiece.
The waiters resumed their positions.
Portia did not move.
"This isn't over," she said quietly.
"I know," Alonzo said.
"But it's over for today."
She looked at him with something that was not quite hatred and not quite respect — something in between that had no clean name.
"You don't know what she's like," Portia said.
"Rosalind.
You've known her for forty minutes.
You don't know what she's capable of."
"Tell me," he said.
Portia's mouth pressed into a line.
"She's been building this case for years.
She's not here for justice.
She's here for the money."
"Maybe," Alonzo said.
"Or maybe she's here because someone forged a document that took everything her grandmother left her.
Either way — a court will decide.
Not you."
Portia looked at the ballroom doors.
At the guests settling back into their chairs.
At Flora, who had appeared in the far doorway with Maisie beside her, the little girl's hand tucked inside hers.
"You're making a mistake," Portia said.
"I've made them before," Alonzo said.
"I'll live with this one."
He walked away from her.
He walked to the far doorway, crouched down to Maisie's level, and looked at her cheek.
The redness had faded slightly.
Maisie looked back at him with steady eyes.
"Are we still having a wedding?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Is Portia staying?"
He glanced back across the room.
Portia had not moved from her position near the main table.
She was watching him.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
Maisie considered this.
"Flora says some people only leave when they're ready."
"Flora's usually right," he said.
He stood.
He straightened his jacket.
He looked at the room — the flowers still in place, the candles still burning, the guests now seated and quiet and waiting.
Then he looked at the ballroom doors.
They opened.
The officiant walked back in, slightly flushed, adjusting her collar.
Behind her, moving with the same unhurried steadiness she had shown when she first entered, came Rosalind.
She had changed nothing about herself.
Same coat.
Same posture.
She walked to a seat near the back and sat down.
She did not look at Portia.
Portia looked at her for a long time.
Then Portia picked up her bag from the table, walked to the side exit, and left.
The door closed behind her.
Not with a slam.
Just a click.
The kind of sound a person makes when they know they've lost the room but refuse to show it.
Alonzo exhaled.
May you like
The officiant reached the front of the room, smoothed her papers, and looked up.
"Shall we begin?" she said.
