Chapter 7 - The Rehearsal on the Lawn
The afternoon rehearsal at Riverland Plantation was suffocating under the heavy scent of blooming magnolias and Victoria Blake's unchecked ego.
Forty members of the wedding party and extended family stood under the towering live oaks draped in Spanish moss.
Victoria was wearing a custom lavender linen suit, holding her monogrammed leather binder, shouting instructions through a small silver megaphone.
"No, no, no! The bridesmaids must angle forty-five degrees toward the river!" Victoria barked, waving her manicured hand.
"The photographers from Southern Living are arriving at five! I will not have this wedding looking like a county fair!"
Madison stood by the stone fountain in her rehearsal dress, checking her makeup in her compact mirror, looking thoroughly stressed.
Beside the arbor, my father, Robert Weller, stood awkwardly in his navy blazer, adjusting his collar, looking miserable in the humid heat.
"Robert, stand straight!" Victoria snapped, glaring at my father.
"When Arthur Vance walks down this aisle, he expects dignity from our side of the family. Try to look like you own something."
My father sighed, lowering his head, murmuring an apology under his breath.
Before Victoria could issue another command, the crunch of heavy tires echoed up the long shell driveway of the plantation.
A sleek, midnight-blue Bentley Continental glided toward the manor house, followed by two black Mercedes executive sedans.
The vehicles bore the private crest of Vance Commercial Holdings.
Victoria gasped in sheer delight, quickly handing her megaphone to an assistant and smoothing her lavender jacket.
"He's here!" Victoria whispered excitedly to Madison.
"Arthur Vance has arrived! Girls, shoulders back, smiles ready!"
The driver of the Bentley stepped out, opening the rear passenger door with crisp, ceremonial precision.
Arthur Vance stepped out onto the gravel, dressed in a sharp charcoal three-piece suit, his posture radiating immense corporate power.
Victoria hurried across the lawn, her arms open, her face arranged in that practiced, sycophantic smile she had perfected for forty years.
"Arthur, darling!" Victoria beamed, extending both hands.
"We were just perfecting the processional! The Lowcountry has never seen a celebration this magnificent!"
Arthur Vance didn't take her hands.
He didn't return her smile.
He stopped five feet away, his expression as cold and unforgiving as a winter sea.
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"Victoria," Arthur said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent lawn to every bridesmaid and cousin.
"Before we proceed with this rehearsal, there is an oversight in the seating chart that requires your immediate personal attention."
