I held his gaze. “Make me.”
He didn’t touch me. Not here. Not with cameras rolling.
Good.
I reached into the fold of my bouquet on the podium where I had set it earlier. Hidden inside was a slim white envelope. I lifted it.
“In this envelope,” I said, “is a copy of the postnuptial transfer order Adrian expected me to sign tonight. It would have given him temporary control over seventy-one percent of my family’s development group in the event of my ‘medical incapacity’ or ‘extended emotional instability.’”
Gasps snapped through the ballroom.
Vanessa stepped back. Adrian’s voice dropped low. “You’re twisting this.”
I looked at my sister. “Am I?”
Her eyes flicked once—just once—toward the back of the room where Dr. Elliot Wren stood frozen beside the bar.
My family’s physician.
The man who, three days ago, had sent me a private message apologizing for “what they asked me to sign.”
That was the moment the room understood this wasn’t a humiliating wedding speech.
This was an execution.