The Bouquet’s Secret
My daughter was marrying the son of a millionaire. All the guests in that sprawling estate outside Dallas, Texas, admired the perfect couple. They lifted champagne flutes and called it a fairy tale, the American dream wrapped in lace, marble, and money.
They had no idea what darkness hid beneath the surface of all that gleaming perfection. Doris Jones stood near the edge of the dance floor, unable to tear her eyes away from her daughter. Simone, in a snow-white gown embroidered with pearls and crystals, looked like a fairy-tale princess come to life.
The ballroom of the Sturgis Ancestral Estate, about thirty miles outside Dallas, glowed with warm golden light from massive crystal chandeliers that hung from the high coffered ceiling. The light shimmered on Simone’s dark hair, styled in an elaborate updo that must have taken hours to perfect, and her train floated behind her like a soft cloud whenever she moved. Delicate beading caught the light with every step, scattering tiny rainbows across the polished marble floor.
Standing next to her was Preston Sturgis, tall, distinguished, and wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that probably cost more than Doris made in three months. He smiled at the guests with the confident smirk of a man accustomed to getting whatever he desired. His cufflinks were platinum, his shoes Italian leather, his hair expertly styled with just the right amount of calculated casualness.
Even from where she stood near the back, Doris could see that he looked like every successful son of old money she had ever seen on TV—polished, composed, and utterly sure the world would bend around him without resistance. The wedding was being held at the Sturgis Ancestral Estate, the kind of property people in Doris’s part of Dallas only ever saw in glossy magazines or on streaming dramas about the lives of the wealthy and powerful. The mansion sat on rolling Texas acreage that seemed to stretch forever, with white columns that rose like temple pillars, marble staircases both inside and out, and a circular driveway where black SUVs and luxury sedans were lined up neatly under the watchful eyes of valet attendants in crisp uniforms.
Inside, the foyer gleamed with polished floors that reflected the light like still water, and oil paintings of stern-faced Sturgis ancestors in gilded frames lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow visitors with aristocratic judgment. Outside, in the sprawling garden where tables were set up for the guests, hundreds of roses perfumed the warm May air with a fragrance so heavy it was almost overwhelming. A clear tent stretched over the dance floor, strung with thousands of fairy lights that twinkled like captured stars and decorated with garlands of fresh flowers imported from California and Florida at what must have been staggering expense.
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