Rosa’s eyes filled with tears. “I was afraid. I thought maybe I’d heard wrong.”
I crossed the room and hugged her. “It’s okay. You’re telling me now.”
Sarah cleared her throat. “All systems are ready. Patricia Donovan will testify via video link. Officers will be positioned as wedding guests—plain clothes. No one will know until we’re ready.”
David spoke again. “One more thing. The transfer doesn’t execute at midnight. It executes at 9:00 p.m. Automated. We have thirty-five minutes from the moment Catherine starts her speech until the money disappears forever.”
Thirty-five minutes.
I looked around the room—my lawyer, my investigator, my oldest friend, my housekeeper—risking everything to help me.
“If we do this,” I said, “there’s no going back. Rachel’s wedding will be destroyed. My relationship with my daughter…”
“…will still exist,” David said. “If she’s innocent, she’ll understand. If she’s not, you’ll know.”
I nodded slowly.
Sarah stood. “It’s 1:47 a.m. We reconvene at the estate at noon tomorrow for final prep. Catherine, you need sleep.”
I won’t sleep.
“Try.”
They filed out one by one. George squeezed my shoulder. Rosa hugged me again. David nodded once.
Sarah was the last to leave. She paused at the door.
“Sixteen hours,” she said. “You’ll either save everything or lose it all.”
“I know.”
She left.
I stood alone in the study, staring at Thomas’s photograph on the desk.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered. “We go to war.”
I woke at dawn, dressed in silence, and stared at the champagne gold gown hanging on my door.
It looked like armor.
6:00. I showered, applied makeup with steady hands, rehearsed the speech in my head—not the one I’d written, the one I’d memorized.
At seven, Rosa brought coffee and squeezed my hand without a word.
At nine, the hair and makeup artist arrived. I smiled, laughed, acted like a mother whose daughter was getting married.
At eleven, Rachel knocked.
She stood in the doorway wearing her white gown—lace and silk and everything a bride should be. Her eyes were red.
“Mom, can I talk to you?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
She stepped inside and closed the door.
“I just want you to know I love you no matter what.”
My heart cracked, but I smiled. “I love you, too, baby.”
She hugged me—held on longer than usual—then left.
I stood alone in the room and tried not to cry.
At noon, my phone buzzed.
David: all evidence compiled. Police confirmed. Patricia Donovan live link ready. You’re good to go.
At one, George texted: Injunction filed, sealed until 9:00 p.m. Judge approved.
At three, guests began arriving—one hundred eighty people. High society. Clients. Board members. People who’d known Thomas. People who’d watched me build Morrison Strategic from the ashes.
At 4:30, I spotted him—Dmitri Vulov—standing near the back, watching Derek like a hawk watches prey.
At 5:00, the ceremony began.
The oak tree stood in the center of the lawn, its branches spreading wide over the rows of white chairs. Thomas had planted it in 1995—the year we founded the company, the year everything started.
Now Rachel would marry beneath it.
The string quartet played. Guests stood.
Rachel appeared at the end of the aisle, her veil trailing behind her. There was no father to walk her down.
Just me.
I took her arm. She looked at me, tears streaming.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered.
“I wouldn’t miss this,” I said.
We walked together slowly—past the guests, past George, who nodded once, past Sarah, whose face was calm, past David, who stood near the back watching.
We reached the oak tree. Derek stood beneath it, smiling, sweating.
The officiant spoke. “Who gives this woman to be married?”
I looked at Rachel, then at Derek, then at the guests.
“I do,” I said. “Her father and I.”
