The wedding is set for December twenty-first, winter solstice, because Leo insists the darkest day of the year is "thematically appropriate for an atmosphere." Six months since the Spring Gala, since Nathan's arrest, since we chose each other in front of five hundred witnesses. Theodore remains in Switzerland, legally neutered but still seething. We've had peace, or what passes for peace in the Dickenson world.
I should have known it wouldn't last.
The rehearsal dinner is at the Blackwood Grand Hall, transformed with black roses and silver candelabras—Leo's vision of "Gothic elegance." Two hundred guests, including the board members who've finally accepted that Devon and I aren't going anywhere. Even Cordelia seems genuinely warm, complimenting my dress (vintage Dior that Vlad insisted on) and Devon's performance of a new composition.
I'm standing on the terrace, needing air from the overwhelming attention, when Jessica appears. Jessica—my former best friend from six years ago, the one who dragged me to that fateful party, who I haven't seen since I fled the city pregnant and terrified.
"My God, Jasmine. It's really you." She looks exactly the same—platinum blonde, designer everything, that sharp smile that always meant trouble. "When I heard the Dickenson heir's mother was named Jasmine Johnson, I wondered... but I had to see for myself."
"Jessica." The name feels foreign on my tongue. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm plus-one to Marcus Pemberton. You know, Pemberton Industries?" She gestures vaguely toward the party. "But the real question is what are YOU doing here? Last I saw you, you were crying over Nathan Blackwood at that party, and then you just... vanished."
My blood chills. "That was a long time ago."
"Six years. I did the math when I saw that gorgeous son of yours performing." Her eyes glitter with malicious interest. "He looks nothing like Nathan, does he? But I remember you leaving that party with someone else that night. Someone who was very drunk and very willing to comfort a crying girl."
"I don't know what you're implying—"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating facts." She pulls out her phone, shows me a photo that makes my heart stop. It's from that night—blurry, taken from below, but unmistakably me on those stairs, kissing someone whose face is hidden in shadow. "I always wondered what happened to you after this. Now I know. You got knocked up by a Dickenson and played the long game."
"That's not—"
"Save it. I know Theodore Dickenson would pay handsomely for this photo. Proof that his precious grandson was conceived in a drunken hookup. That his son was trapped by a calculating—"
"Stop." The voice comes from behind us. Leo steps onto the terrace, and for once, his usual smirk is replaced by something deadly. "Ms...?"
"Hartley. Jessica Hartley." She straightens, recognizing power when she sees it.
"Ms. Hartley. How much?"
"Excuse me?"
"For the photo. And your silence. Name your price."
Jessica's eyes light up with greed. "A million."
"Done." Leo pulls out his phone, makes a transfer without hesitation. "The photo, all copies, and your signature on this NDA." He produces a document from his jacket—of course Leo carries NDAs to parties.
Jessica practically lunges for the phone, confirms the transfer, signs the document, and hands over her phone. "Pleasure doing business."
After she leaves, I turn to Leo. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did. But Jasmine..." His expression is troubled. "If Jessica found that photo, others might have similar ones. Theodore's been too quiet. This feels like—"
A scream cuts through the night.
We run back inside to find chaos. The lights are flickering—not like at the Spring Gala, but in a pattern that seems deliberate. Guests are backing away from the center of the hall where Vlad stands with Devon, both looking at something on the floor.
A black rose, but not like the decorative ones. This one drips with what looks disturbingly like blood. A note is pinned to its stem.
Vlad reads it aloud, his voice carrying over the frightened murmurs: "The sins of the father, visited upon the son. Tonight, old debts are settled."
"Everyone out!" Leo commands, his voice cutting through panic. "Security, lock down the building. Nobody leaves until we know—"
The lights cut completely. In the darkness, I hear Devon call out "Mom!" and I'm moving, pushing through bodies, desperate to reach him.
Then, a sound I'll never forget—breaking glass from above, like the skylights are shattering. Emergency lights flicker on just as figures in black rappel from the ceiling. Professional, military-precise, exactly like the men Theodore hired before but different—these move with personal vendetta, not just paid efficiency.
"DEVON!" I scream, seeing one heading directly for him.
Vlad moves to intercept, but another figure blocks him. In the chaos, I see Eduardo fighting two men, Leo pulling out a gun I didn't know he carried, guests screaming and running.
But all I see is Devon, my brilliant, brave son, standing frozen as a masked figure reaches for him.
The thoughts crash through my mind in a microsecond: I could let this happen. Let Theodore win, take Devon to Switzerland, raise him with unlimited resources. He'd have everything. Private tutors, the best schools, a name that opens every door.
But he wouldn't have us. Wouldn't have Vlad reading to him every night, Leo teaching him inappropriate life skills, my arms when nightmares come. He'd have everything except love freely given.
He's Devon. He's my son. He's the miracle that came from the worst and best night of my life.
I'm running before the decision fully forms. The masked figure has his hands on Devon's shoulders when I crash into them both, using my body as a shield. We tumble, a confusion of limbs, but I keep Devon beneath me, protected.
"Mom!" Devon's voice, terrified but unharmed.
The masked man recovers quickly, professionally. I see his hand move to his belt, see the gleam of metal—a knife, not a gun, because guns make noise and these are professionals.
"No!" Vlad's voice, raw with rage and fear.
I turn, pushing Devon toward his father, and that's when I feel it—the sharp, burning pain in my side. Once. Twice. The knife moves so fast I barely see it, only feel the wrongness of metal where it shouldn't be, the warm wetness spreading across my dress.
I look down, confused. The vintage Dior is ruining, dark stains spreading across cream silk. That seems important somehow, that Leo will be upset about the dress.
"JASMINE!" Vlad's voice breaks through my confusion.
I'm falling, but slowly, like in a dream. The masked man is already moving, grabbed by Eduardo, and there's fighting everywhere, but it all seems very far away.
"Mom! MOM!" Devon's face appears above me, those impossible dark eyes wide with terror. "Someone help! HELP HER!"
Vlad's hands are on my face, my side, trying to stop the bleeding. "Stay with me. Jasmine, love, stay with me."
"The dress," I mumble. "Leo's going to be so angry about the dress."
"Fuck the dress." That's Leo, kneeling beside me, his hands joining Vlad's in trying to apply pressure. "Don't you dare die at your own rehearsal dinner. It's tacky and I won't forgive you."
Sirens. Were they always there or just starting? The world is going soft around the edges, like looking through frosted glass.
"Get Devon out," I manage. "Don't let him see—"
"I'm not leaving!" Devon's voice, fierce and broken. "Mom, please. Please don't leave us."
The last thing I see before darkness claims me is Vlad's face, tears streaming down his cheeks, looking exactly like he did that night six years ago—lost, broken, desperate. But this time, he's not a stranger.
This time, he's mine.
And I'm leaving him.