Chapter 3: The Heirloom He Let Her Destroy

The first letter was snatched up by a man who was already drunk.

“The envelope says, ‘To My Future Husband.’”

He dragged out the words, deliberately taunting.

“Well, looks like the future husband doesn’t want it. So whoever buys it gets to read it, right?”

Someone held up a one-dollar bill.

Someone else bid five, eager to be the first to read my most private thoughts aloud.

I didn’t move.

The doors were locked, the stage surrounded. Any flicker of weakness would just become another prop in their game.

I kept my eyes on Miles.

“Give me back my letters and tell security to open the door.”

“The doors will open when the show’s over,” he said flatly.

“I never agreed to be part of this.”

“You came, didn’t you?”

I had agreed to come to my rehearsal dinner. I had not agreed to be trapped on a stage while strangers pawed through my life.

When Audrey saw I still wasn’t crying, her smile tightened.

“Miles said you could take a lot. I guess he was right.”

She walked to the display table and picked up the silver brooch.

Engraved on the back was a white ash tree with sprawling branches—the Blackwell family crest for over a hundred years. As my grandmother was dying, she’d pressed it into my palm and told me that power wasn't about placing yourself above others. It was the ability to make things right when the rules failed to protect people.

I had only told Miles that story once.

I never mentioned the trust or the inheritance. I’d only said it was the most important thing my grandmother had ever given me.

That night, he had pinned it to my collar himself and promised he would never let anything happen to it.

Now, Audrey held it between two fingers like some cheap, tacky bauble.

“This thing looks like it came from a flea market.”

“Put it down,” I said, my voice low and even.

She turned to look at Miles.

It was his last chance to stop this.

Miles took a slow sip of his drink.

“Don’t overdo it, Audrey.”

She smiled. “Would smashing it be overdoing it?”

He glanced at me, his tone lazy.

“It can be fixed.”

The brass auction gavel came down.

A sharp crack echoed through the ballroom.

The silver crest split in two, and a tiny sapphire skittered off the edge of the stage.

I lunged forward, and Audrey struck it again.

The sharp edge of broken metal bit into my palm, and blood dripped onto the white tag.

The betting page flickered, then paused.

Someone shouted, “She still hasn’t cried! I’m betting twenty minutes!”