The ceremony passed without incident. Applause echoed, champagne flowed, and the band struck up music that bounced off marble floors. Then, at the reception, Alan cornered me near the bar. His hand closed around my shoulder with a grip that was no longer friendly. His voice dropped, urgent, demanding. He said it was time to transfer the farm, that Avery deserved security, that paperwork should be signed that night.
When I refused, his face changed—charm collapsing into contempt. He called me old, irrelevant, an obstacle. And before I could even step back, he struck me. The blow sent me stumbling, my heel catching on the polished floor as pain exploded across my jaw. I tasted blood. The room froze. Two hundred guests stared in disbelief. Avery stood motionless, eyes wide, trapped in shock. And in that instant, as I struggled to keep my balance, I understood something devastating: he had already been poisoning her against me.
