The wind outside picked up, rattling the heavy glass panels again as the storm rolled in over the lake.

I looked at the silver smartphone Vivian had dropped on the table, its screen still lighting up with a barrage of incoming messages.

The screen of Vivian’s phone flashed with another notification, casting a cold blue light across the polished mahogany table.

Through the tall glass doors, I watched Grandfather Bradford’s assistant open a black umbrella against the driving rain.

The old man walked toward the waiting town car without looking back, his spine straight despite his heavy cane.

Inside the pavilion, the silence was suffocating, broken only by the low murmur of the remaining guests whispers near the exit.

Audrey Kensington stood frozen in the center of the room, her hand clutching the lace of her white gown so tightly her knuckles were white.

Her father, Senator Thomas Kensington, stepped forward from the front row.

His face was flushed, his jaw set in a hard, practiced line that I had seen on televised campaign ads.

“Audrey,” the Senator said, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a blade. “We are leaving.”