The Owner Wants You Out

At my sister’s wedding, something happened that I’ll never forget. In front of hundreds of guests, a comment was made about my appearance that sparked laughter throughout the elegant ballroom. What started as a humiliating moment at a family celebration would become the catalyst for a revelation that no one—especially not my father—saw coming. By the end of the night, everything he thought he knew about his eldest daughter would be shattered in the most spectacular way possible.

My name is Sierra Stanton, and I’m thirty-two years old. The story I’m about to tell you began long before that June evening, but it all came to a head at my younger sister’s wedding—an event that was supposed to be about love and family, but instead became the stage for the most significant confrontation of my life.

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday afternoon in late May. I remember the moment clearly because I was standing in my Las Vegas penthouse, thirty-four floors above the Strip, sorting through mail between conference calls. The cream-colored envelope stood out among the usual business correspondence—thick, expensive paper with gold calligraphy and the Stanton family crest embossed in the corner. My father had commissioned that crest fifteen years ago when he decided our family needed to project a more established image.

I knew the invitation was late before I even opened it. My high school friend Melissa had posted hers on Instagram more than a month earlier, showing off the elegant script with the caption “June wedding vibes!” I’d scrolled past it while eating takeout at my desk, wondering if mine had somehow gotten lost in the mail.

It hadn’t been lost. It had been deliberately delayed.

Inside the envelope, tucked behind the formal invitation to the wedding of Vanessa Marie Stanton and Derek James Mercer, was a handwritten note on my father’s personal stationery. The message was brief and cutting:

Sierra, don’t wear anything flashy. This wedding isn’t about you. Don’t embarrass Vanessa. Dad.

I read those words three times, not because I was shocked—I’d long since moved past being shocked by my father’s treatment of me—but because they were so painfully, predictably familiar. This was Richard Stanton in a nutshell: controlling, dismissive, always ready to remind me of my place in the family hierarchy.

Eight years ago, when I told my father I was leaving Scottsdale to study hospitality management instead of joining his real estate firm, he’d said something I’ve never forgotten: “So you’re choosing to serve other people for a living? Busing tables, carrying luggage. That’s your big dream?”

I had tried to explain that hospitality was about creating experiences, about leadership, about building something meaningful. He’d waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away an annoying insect.

“You’ll be back in a year,” he’d said with complete certainty. “Begging for a real job.”

I never went back.

And now, eight years later, his handwriting hadn’t changed. Neither had his opinion of me.

I set the invitation on my kitchen counter next to a stack of quarterly reports from my company and stared at it for a long time. The wedding was three weeks away. I could decline. I could send a gift and a polite excuse. No one would miss me—they’d probably prefer it that way.

But something in me refused to hide anymore.

Vanessa called two days later, her voice carrying that particular artificial sweetness she reserved for moments when she needed something or was uncomfortable.

“Sierra, you got the invitation, right? You’re coming?”

I leaned back in my office chair, watching the Las Vegas skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office. “I got it. A month after everyone else, but I got it.”

There was a pause, then a quick recovery. “Oh, that was probably just a mail thing.”

It wasn’t a mail thing, and we both knew it. The Stanton family had never been good at hiding their priorities, and I had never been one of them.

“Anyway,” Vanessa continued, her tone shifting to something more cautious, “Dad’s a little worried you might draw attention. You know how he gets about these things.”

“Draw attention how?” I asked, genuinely curious about what scenario my father had constructed in his mind.

“Just… you know, he wants everything to be perfect. This is a big deal for him. Lots of his business partners are coming—the Holts, the Reeves family, people from the Arizona Real Estate Association. He’s been planning his speech for weeks.”

Of course. This wedding wasn’t really about Vanessa at all. It was another opportunity for Richard Stanton to perform for his audience, to showcase his success and his perfect family.

“How many guests?” I asked.

“Two hundred eighty-seven. Can you believe it?” She giggled, the sound grating against my nerves. “The Grand View Estate can hold four hundred, but we wanted it to feel intimate. Derek’s family is so impressed. They’ve never been to a venue this nice.”

I kept my voice carefully neutral. “Sounds beautiful.”

“It really is. The pictures online don’t do it justice—the gardens, the mountain views, everything. Oh, and Dad already arranged the seating. You’re at table fourteen.”

Table fourteen. I’d worked in hospitality long enough to know exactly what that meant. The table furthest from the head table, typically reserved for guests who needed to be present but weren’t important enough to be visible. The overflow table. The afterthought table.

“Great,” I said evenly. “I’ll be there.”

“Really?” Vanessa sounded genuinely surprised, as if she’d expected me to decline. “I mean… great. Just remember what Dad said about not wearing anything too—”

“I remember, Vanessa.”

After we hung up, I sat in silence for several minutes, processing the conversation. Then I pulled up my laptop and opened the property records for the Grand View Estate. The smile that spread across my face was the first genuine one I’d managed all day.

Owner of record: Crest View Hospitality Group.

CEO: Sierra Stanton.

My mother died when I was fourteen years old. Ovarian cancer took her after an eleven-month battle that I spent mostly in hospital chairs, holding her hand while she fought a war she couldn’t win. During those eleven months, my father attended networking events and my younger sister practiced for cheerleading tryouts. I was the only one who seemed to understand that we were losing something irreplaceable.

Mom left behind two precious things: a collection of handwritten letters she’d prepared for major moments in my life—graduation, first job, wedding, first child—and one hundred twenty thousand dollars in life insurance, split evenly between Vanessa and me.

Dad held our portions “for safekeeping.” That’s what he called it. Safekeeping.

Vanessa received her sixty thousand dollars on her twenty-first birthday without question. She used it as a down payment on a condo that Dad helped her find in a building where one of his clients was the developer. Naturally, everyone benefited from that transaction except the person who was supposed to inherit the money.

When I turned twenty-one, I asked about my share. My father looked at me over his reading glasses, newspaper spread out in front of him on the breakfast table.

“You’ll just waste it, Sierra. When you prove you know how to manage money, we’ll talk.”

I was twenty-two when I left Scottsdale with twenty-four hundred dollars in my savings account, a secondhand Honda Civic, and one of my mother’s letters tucked into my wallet—the one labeled When you feel lost.

You don’t need anyone’s permission to become who you’re meant to be, she’d written in her careful script. But sometimes you’ll need to show them.

I never asked about the sixty thousand dollars again. Not because I didn’t need it—those first two years in Las Vegas were brutal, working double shifts at a budget hotel while finishing my degree online—but because I refused to owe my father anything. I would rather struggle than be indebted to Richard Stanton.

Eighteen years later, I still haven’t seen a cent of my mother’s money.

But I built something worth far more than sixty thousand dollars. I built an empire. And in three weeks, my father would be standing in the middle of it, completely unaware.

June fourteenth arrived faster than I expected. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my Las Vegas penthouse, evaluating my reflection with the critical eye I usually reserved for property inspections. Simple black dress—elegant but understated, nothing that could be called flashy. Pearl earrings my mother had given me for my sixteenth birthday. Minimal makeup, hair pulled back in a low chignon that would stay neat all evening.

Nothing flashy. Nothing that would embarrass Vanessa.

My phone buzzed on the dresser. A text from Elena Vance, my CFO and the closest thing I had to a best friend after years of building a business together.

Good luck today. Remember, you don’t owe them anything.

I smiled and typed back: I know. But I need to see this through.

Three dots appeared, then her response: If he says anything stupid, just remember you could literally buy his entire client list and still have money left over for a yacht.

I laughed despite the tension coiling in my stomach. Elena had been with me since the beginning, since I was a twenty-six-year-old operations manager with a crazy idea and a business plan scribbled on hotel stationery. She’d believed in me when literally no one else did, when banks laughed at my loan applications and industry veterans told me I was too young, too inexperienced, too female to succeed in commercial hospitality.

My phone buzzed again, this time with an email notification from Grand View Estate Event Management.

To: Sierra Stanton, CEO, Crest View Hospitality Group Subject: Owner Notification – Stanton–Mercer Wedding, June 14th

Ms. Stanton, per your request, we are confirming that the Stanton–Mercer wedding is proceeding as scheduled. General Manager Marcus Webb will be on site and available should you require anything. Please let us know if you need any accommodations.

I read the email twice, feeling the weight of what I was about to do settle over me like a cloak. Four months ago, I’d signed the papers to acquire the Grand View Estate for $6.8 million. It was the crown jewel of Scottsdale’s event venue market, and now it belonged to Crest View Hospitality Group.

My company. My venue. My rules.

My father had no idea.

I picked up my car keys and headed for the door, my heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Whatever happened tonight, there would be no going back.

The Grand View Estate sprawled across twelve meticulously maintained acres of Sonoran desert landscape, its Tuscan-inspired architecture rising majestically against the backdrop of Camelback Mountain. I’d studied every detail of this property for months before acquiring it: the hand-laid stone pathways imported from Italy, the century-old olive trees that provided dappled shade over the gardens, the fifteen-thousand-square-foot main pavilion with its revolutionary retractable glass ceiling. At forty-five thousand dollars per day for exclusive events, it was the most sought-after wedding venue in Arizona, booked solid nearly two years in advance.

I pulled my rental car—a modest Toyota Camry, deliberately chosen instead of the Mercedes I usually drove—up to the valet stand. A young man in a crisp white shirt and black slacks approached with professional enthusiasm, then stopped mid-stride when he recognized me. His eyes widened slightly.

“Miss Stanton.” He glanced around nervously. “We weren’t expecting— I mean, welcome back.”

I held a finger to my lips in a gesture of silence. “I’m just a guest today, Michael. A very low-profile guest. Understood?”

He nodded quickly, clearly relieved to have direction. “Of course. I’ll make sure the team knows.”

“Thank you.”

I walked through the main entrance, past the cascading water feature that had cost seventy thousand dollars to install and the hand-painted Portuguese tiles that lined the entryway. Everything was immaculate. The floral arrangements—white roses and eucalyptus, exactly as Vanessa had requested in her planning documents—were strategically placed to create visual impact without overwhelming the space. The string quartet was warming up near the outdoor ceremony area, their music drifting through the open archways. Everything was running smoothly, exactly as it should be.

“Sierra.”

I turned to find Marcus Webb, the general manager I’d inherited with the property, standing near the entrance to the main pavilion. At fifty-two, Marcus had the silver hair and calm demeanor of someone who’d successfully managed countless high-stakes events. He’d been at the Grand View for eleven years, and when I’d acquired the venue, keeping him on staff had been absolutely non-negotiable. His experience and reputation were as valuable as the property itself.

He was also the only person here today who knew exactly who I was and what I owned.

“Marcus.” I shook his hand warmly. “Everything looks absolutely beautiful.”

He glanced around, then lowered his voice, though we were relatively alone in this section of the building. “Your father arrived about an hour ago. He’s already been… making requests.”

My stomach tightened slightly. “What kind of requests?”

Marcus hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “He asked us to move your seating assignment. From table fourteen to somewhere he deemed more appropriate.”

“More appropriate meaning what, exactly?”

His expression told me everything I needed to know before he said the words. “He wanted you seated with the catering staff, in the service area. I told him we’d need to check with the bride first, but he insisted it was a family decision.”

I took a slow breath, centering myself. This was worse than I’d anticipated, but somehow not surprising. Richard Stanton had always had a talent for finding new depths to sink to.

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I’d see what I could arrange.” Marcus met my eyes. “I wanted to check with you first. This is your property, Miss Stanton. Your call entirely.”

I looked out toward the terrace where early-arriving guests were beginning to gather, champagne glasses already in hand. My father would be out there somewhere, holding court, playing the role of successful patriarch and father of the bride.

“Let him have what he wants,” I said quietly.

Marcus’s eyebrows rose. “You’re sure?”

“Completely sure. Don’t tell him who owns this property. Don’t tell anyone. Let this play out exactly as he’s arranged it.”

“May I ask why?”

I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Because I want to see how far he’ll go. I need to know exactly who my father is when he thinks there are no consequences. And then—” I paused, the plan crystallizing fully in my mind. “Then I’ll show him who I’ve become.”

Marcus studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Understood. I’ll be available throughout the evening. Just give me a signal if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Marcus. That means more than you know.”

I found my father exactly where I expected him to be—holding court near the outdoor bar, surrounded by a cluster of men in expensive suits. I recognized several faces from Arizona business magazines and society pages: the kind of people my father had spent his entire adult life trying to impress, cultivate, and use for his own advancement.

Richard Stanton, at sixty-one, still carried himself like a man who believed he was unquestionably the most important person in any room. His silver hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. His custom navy suit probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. The Rolex on his wrist—the one he’d bought himself after his first million-dollar deal and mentioned in virtually every speech he’d ever given—caught the afternoon sunlight.

He spotted me approaching, and something flickered across his face. Annoyance, perhaps. Or embarrassment at having to acknowledge my presence in front of his important guests. He quickly rearranged his features into a tight, controlled smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Gentlemen, this is my older daughter, Sierra.” He gestured vaguely in my direction, as if I were a piece of furniture he was pointing out. “She works in hospitality. Somewhere in Nevada, I believe.”

One of the men—tall, probably in his late fifties, with kind eyes and genuine warmth in his expression—extended his hand to me professionally. “Hospitality? That’s a growing industry with a lot of opportunities. What do you do exactly?”

Before I could open my mouth to respond, my father cut in smoothly, his voice carrying that particular tone of condescending amusement. “She’s in the service side of things, you know—hotels, that sort of thing. Making beds, greeting guests, the usual.” He chuckled, inviting the others to share in his joke. “Someone has to do it, right? Not everyone can be in management.”

Several of the men laughed politely, though I noticed the tall one’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked at me with what might have been sympathy or perhaps just discomfort at witnessing such casual cruelty.

I shook hands with each of them in turn, keeping my expression pleasant and neutral, giving nothing away. “Lovely to meet you all. I hope you enjoy the wedding.”

As the group began to disperse to find their seats for the ceremony, my father leaned close to me. His breath smelled like the bourbon he’d already been nursing, despite the early hour.

“Table fourteen was full,” he said quietly, his voice pitched low so only I could hear. “I had them move you somewhere more appropriate for someone in your… position.”

“Where exactly?”

“Don’t make a scene, Sierra. Just go where they tell you.” He straightened his tie with practiced precision. “And try not to talk to anyone important. This is Vanessa’s day, and I won’t have you embarrassing her with your… situation.”

He walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing alone near the bar, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I forced myself to breathe slowly, to unclench my fingers, to maintain the calm exterior I’d perfected over years of business negotiations.

Somewhere more appropriate.

I knew exactly what that meant.

I found refuge in the women’s restroom, locking myself in the furthest stall and pressing my palms against the cool marble wall. The bathroom was elegantly appointed—I’d approved every detail of the renovation myself—with soft lighting and subtle music that was meant to create a sense of calm luxury.

But I felt anything but calm.

Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe.

Eight years. I’d spent eight years building a life my father knew nothing about, building it from the ground up with nothing but determination and a refusal to fail. Eight years of sixteen-hour days, of rejected loan applications that made me question everything, of sleeping in my office during those early months when I couldn’t afford both rent and payroll. Eight years of proving to myself—if no one else—that I was more than what Richard Stanton believed I was.

And now I was hiding in a bathroom, hands shaking, fighting back tears that would ruin my carefully applied makeup.

Why did I come here?

I knew the answer, even though I hated admitting it to myself. Some part of me—the fourteen-year-old girl who’d held her dying mother’s hand in that sterile hospital room, who’d watched her father check his phone during the funeral—still desperately wanted him to see me. Really see me. To recognize that I’d become someone worth knowing, someone successful and capable and strong.

But if I revealed myself now, in this moment of raw emotion, I’d be the one causing drama. I’d be the difficult daughter who couldn’t let her sister have one perfect day. My father would spin the narrative the way he always did, painting me as jealous or attention-seeking or unstable, and I’d become the villain of the story he told at cocktail parties for years to come.

My phone buzzed in my clutch. A text from Marcus: Your father just asked us to seat you with the catering staff. He said you’d feel more comfortable there. What do you want me to do?

I stared at the message for a long time, reading it over and over until the words lost meaning and became just shapes on a screen.

The catering staff. My own father wanted me to sit with the servers at my younger sister’s wedding. In a venue I owned. On property I’d paid nearly seven million dollars to acquire.

Something shifted in my chest. Not anger—anger was too hot, too impulsive. This was something colder and clearer. A crystallization of purpose.

I typed back: Let him. Don’t say anything to contradict him.

Marcus replied immediately: Are you absolutely sure?

Yes. But stay close. If he pushes any further, I’ll let you know.

I put my phone away, looked at myself in the mirror, and made a conscious decision. I wouldn’t reveal myself yet. I wouldn’t hide, either. I would let my father dig his hole deeper and deeper, showing everyone exactly who he was when he thought there were no consequences for his cruelty.

And then, when he’d gone as far as he could possibly go, I would let him hit the bottom he’d created.

A young wedding coordinator I didn’t recognize—probably hired specifically for this event, young and nervous and clearly inexperienced—found me near the outdoor ceremony space as guests began taking their seats in the neat rows of white chairs arranged in the garden.

“Miss Stanton? Sierra Stanton?”

“That’s me.”

She clutched her tablet like it was a shield protecting her from an unpleasant task. “I’m so sorry, but there’s been a change to your seating assignment. Mr. Stanton—your father—asked us to relocate you. He said you’d be more comfortable in the staff area.”

Her voice was apologetic, and she couldn’t meet my eyes. She knew this was wrong.

“The staff area?” I repeated, keeping my voice neutral.

“It’s just… the main tables are very full, and he thought—” She trailed off, unable to complete the lie convincingly.

“It’s fine,” I said gently, not wanting this young woman to suffer for my father’s choices. “This isn’t your fault. You’re just doing your job. Show me where to go.”

Relief flooded her face. She led me through a service corridor to a small break room behind the main pavilion. Six people sat around a folding table that had seen better days, eating quickly from paper plates—the catering team grabbing a meal before the intensive work of the reception service began.

“I’m really sorry,” the coordinator whispered as we reached the door. “I’ve worked a lot of weddings, but I’ve never seen anyone do this to a family member before. It’s not right.”

“It’s okay,” I assured her, touching her arm briefly. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

She hurried away, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, and I stepped into the room. Six faces looked up at me simultaneously—some curious, some confused, all wondering who I was and why I was there.

“Hi,” I said, pulling out an empty chair. “I’m Sierra. Mind if I join you?”

A young woman with curly dark hair and a small nose ring—her name tag identified her as Jaime—squinted at me, her head tilting slightly as she processed my presence. “Wait. Stanton? Like the bride’s last name?”

“Like the bride’s sister, actually.”

Complete silence fell over the table. Then Jaime’s eyes went wide with disbelief and outrage. “Holy shit. They put the bride’s sister with the catering staff?”

“Apparently I’ll feel more comfortable here,” I said, keeping my tone light despite the humiliation burning in my chest.

An older man in a chef’s coat—probably in his fifties, with tired eyes that had seen too many demanding events—shook his head slowly. “That’s cold. That’s really cold.”

Jaime pushed a plate of appetizers toward me, her expression shifting from shock to something like solidarity. “Well, you’re one of us now. Might as well eat something. The crab cakes are actually really good.”

I took one and smiled genuinely for the first time since arriving. “Thanks.”

From the main pavilion, I heard the string quartet begin the processional music. The ceremony was starting, and I was exactly where my father wanted me to be.

Invisible.

The ceremony was genuinely beautiful—I could acknowledge that even through my complicated emotions. I watched it through a narrow service window, standing behind Jaime and two other servers who’d graciously made room for me to see. Vanessa looked absolutely radiant in her designer gown, every inch the perfect bride. Derek appeared genuinely nervous in the best possible way, the kind of nervous that comes from overwhelming joy rather than doubt. Even my father managed to look dignified and proud as he walked his youngest daughter down the aisle between rows of white chairs, his expression perfectly arranged for the photographer capturing every moment.

It was the picture-perfect family moment he’d always wanted to project to the world.

The cocktail hour began at exactly 5:45 p.m. I emerged from the service area and drifted toward the outdoor terrace, deliberately staying near the edges of the gathering, observing rather than participating. The space was transformed for the reception—thousands of tiny lights had been strung overhead, creating a canopy of stars against the deepening Arizona sky. Waiters circulated with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. A jazz trio played softly in one corner.

My father stood near the main bar with a fresh drink and a fresh group of admirers—more business associates, more people to impress with his success and his connections. I was walking past quietly, heading toward a quiet corner where I could fade into the background, when his voice suddenly cut through the ambient conversation.

“Sierra, come here.”

I stopped and turned. At least two hundred of the two hundred eighty-seven guests were milling around the terrace, and at least forty of them had turned to watch at the sound of my father’s commanding voice.

I had no choice but to walk over. My father put his hand on my shoulder—a gesture that might have looked affectionate to strangers but felt to me like a brand marking ownership. He addressed his audience with that practiced showman’s smile I knew so well.

“Gentlemen, ladies, this is my other daughter. The one I mentioned earlier.”

He looked me up and down deliberately, making a show of taking in my simple black dress and understated appearance.

“You know, Sierra, you should have told me you were going formal tonight.” He paused for comedic timing. “At least you’re dressed for serving drinks.”

Laughter erupted around us. Fifteen, maybe twenty people openly laughing at his joke at my expense.

My father grinned, warming to his audience now, feeding off their reaction. “Actually, I noticed the catering team looks a little short-staffed tonight. Maybe you could help out—put those hospitality skills of yours to good use. Make yourself useful.”

More laughter, louder this time, spreading through the crowd like ripples on water.

I looked at my father—at his smug, self-satisfied smile, at the faces around him finding amusement in my humiliation—and I made a choice. Not the choice he expected.

“Sure, Dad.” I kept my voice pleasant and agreeable. “I’d be happy to help out.”

I walked calmly to the bar, picked up an unopened bottle of Veuve Clicquot—at four hundred dollars per bottle—and began systematically pouring champagne for guests. If he wanted a server, I would give him exactly that.

For the next forty-seven minutes, I poured champagne throughout the venue. I moved through the crowd like a ghost, like a piece of the scenery, refilling glasses and offering polite smiles. And I listened.

People speak freely around servers. We become invisible, part of the furniture, not worth guarding their words around. It’s something I’d learned during my early days in hospitality, and it had never been more useful than tonight.

“Richard’s older daughter,” a woman dripping in diamonds whispered to her husband near the garden entrance. “Apparently she never amounted to much. Works at some motel in Vegas somewhere. Such a shame for the family.”

“At least Vanessa turned out well,” he replied dismissively. “Richard must be relieved about that.”

At another cluster of guests, I overheard one of my father’s long-time business partners—a heavyset man with a loud voice and expensive cologne—telling a story to his companions.

“Richard told me years ago that she dropped out of college to bus tables in Las Vegas. Can you imagine? With all his connections in Arizona, she could have had any job she wanted. Some people just don’t have ambition, I guess. Bad genes from somewhere.”

I refilled his glass carefully. He didn’t even glance at me, didn’t register my presence at all.

Near the elaborate dessert display, I passed Vanessa and her cluster of bridesmaids, all holding champagne and laughing about something. One of them—a blonde in a too-tight pink dress—noticed me and nudged Vanessa with her elbow.

“Is that your sister? The one serving drinks to the guests?”

Vanessa glanced in my direction, and for just a moment, something flickered in her eyes. Embarrassment, maybe. Or guilt. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“Sierra likes to keep a low profile,” she said with a light laugh. “It’s just who she is. She’s always been… different.”

I kept moving, kept pouring, kept listening to the narrative my father had constructed about my life being repeated and reinforced throughout the crowd.

At 6:32 p.m., I felt a gentle hand on my elbow near the kitchen entrance. Marcus had found me.

“Ms. Stanton.” His voice was barely audible, pitched for my ears only. “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine, Marcus.”

“This is…” He struggled visibly for appropriate words. “In eleven years of managing events at this venue, I have never seen anything like this. It’s unconscionable.”

“I know.”

“Do you want me to intervene? I can stop this right now.”

I checked my watch. The reception dinner would begin in approximately thirty minutes. My father’s speech—the one Vanessa had mentioned he’d been planning for weeks—was scheduled for 7:15 p.m.

“Not yet,” I said quietly. “But Marcus?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Stay very close to the sound system and the microphone. I have a strong feeling he’s not done yet. And when the time is right, I’m going to need your help.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and a small, satisfied smile appeared on his face. “I’ll be ready.”

I continued my silent circulation through the crowd, champagne bottle in hand, invisible and ignored. But I wasn’t powerless. Not anymore.

I was gathering evidence. Building a case. Waiting for the perfect moment.

And when that moment came, everyone at this wedding was going to learn exactly who Sierra Stanton really was.

THE END