“Mom, don’t stop me.” Those five words turned my blood to ice.

Before I could answer Graham, my sister’s sharp scream rang out from across the floor.

“YOU!”

Vanessa was marching toward the DJ booth, her long bridal train dragging uselessly behind her like dirty snow. Her veil was ripped, hanging limply from one side of her head, and her eyes were wild with rage.

“You little rat!” Vanessa screamed at Lily, pointing a long acrylic fingernail directly at my daughter. “You ruined my life! You broke into my personal belongings!”

Instinct took over. I stepped down from the booth, placing my body completely between Vanessa and Lily.

“Back up, Vanessa,” I said. My voice was low, stable, and filled with a dangerous quiet.

“She stole from me!” Vanessa shrieked, trying to push past me. “That flash drive was private property! Graham, tell her! Tell her she committed a crime!”

“The only person who committed a crime here is you, Vanessa,” Graham said smoothly, stepping up beside me. His tall frame easily blocked her path. “And if I were you, I would stop yelling and start calling a criminal defense lawyer.”

Vanessa gasped, stepping back as if she had been slapped. “What?”

“I just spoke to my father,” Graham said, his tone devoid of any emotion. “He is currently on the phone with the District Attorney. The two point four million dollars you transferred from our firm’s trust account constitutes grand larceny, wire fraud, and embezzlement.”

My mother rushed up beside Vanessa, her face red with indignity.

“Graham Ellison, how dare you!” Mom shouted. “Vanessa is your wife!”

“She is not my wife,” Graham corrected cold-headedly. “The license wasn't signed. And after what I just saw on that screen, she will never be anywhere near my family again.”

“Claire, tell him to stop!” Mom turned on me, grabbing my shoulders with frantic desperation. “You’re her sister! Tell Graham this was all a misunderstanding! If this gets out, the Whitmore name will be ruined in Newport!”

I looked at my mother—the woman who had spent the last three years watching her grandchild limp because we couldn't afford physical therapy, while she bought designer handbags for Vanessa.

“The Whitmore name died the day you helped her steal my daughter’s future,” I said coldly.