“…and my dad is going to steal it all tonight.”
The boy’s voice cracked, echoing off the blinding chandeliers of the St. Jude Ballroom. A breathless, suffocating silence dropped over the three hundred elite guests.
The groom, Marcus, stood frozen. The color completely drained from his face, the white rose on his lapel suddenly looking like a bullseye. Behind him, the bride’s pristine mask of shock morphed into something terrifyingly feral.
“Turn off the mic!” Eleanor hissed, clawing desperately at the heavy layers of her white silk gown as she lunged forward.
But the boy, Tommy, held his ground. Tears cascaded down his flushed cheeks, his small knuckles turning white against the cold metal stand. “I heard her in the bridal suite,” he sobbed, his face twisted in genuine heartbreak. “She was on the phone with my real dad. She said the moment you signed the marriage registry, they would use your thumbprint from the champagne flute to authorize the offshore transfer.”
Marcus stared down at his right hand. He had just handed his empty glass to the head waiter. The same waiter who had vanished three minutes ago.
“I’m sorry, Marcus,” Tommy wailed, his shoulders heaving with defensive grief. “I don’t want them to ruin you. You’re the only one who ever played catch with me.”
Eleanor finally snatched the microphone, the audio feedback squealing like a dying animal. “He’s a sick child making things up! Security, remove him!”
But it wasn’t the guards who moved. The heavy mahogany ballroom doors suddenly slammed shut, locking from the outside with a sickening metallic *clank*. The blazing chandeliers flickered, instantly plunging the luxurious hall into blood-red emergency lighting.
A distorted voice crackled over the PA system.
“Thanks for the billions, Marcus,” the voice chuckled. “Enjoy the honeymoon.”