The wedding reception of David Salinger and Natalie Sterling had been designed to be a coronation. Instead, it had become a press conference for the hostile takeover of the social season.
The bar area, an elegant setup beneath a white silk tent, was no longer serving drinks; it was serving drama.
Andy Finch stood with his back to the mahogany counter, a crystal tumbler of scotch in one hand and Louise Cooper securely tucked into his other arm. He looked less like a wedding guest and more like a monarch holding court in a conquered province.
The guests—a mix of David’s terrified colleagues from Moonlit Tech, Andy’s curious subordinates who had crashed the wedding via the rumor mill, and the high school classmates clutching their Chanel bags had formed a tight semi-circle around them. The
