Harrison set down his fork.
“That is none of your concern.”
“Everything involving Blackwell assets is my concern.”
“I am your father, not an asset.”
Her expression changed for half a second.
Beneath the anger, I saw fear.
Then it disappeared.
The wedding took place six weeks later in the glass conservatory behind Harrison’s home in Roland Park.
It was small.
Thirty guests.
No magazine photographers.
No society announcement.
I wore a simple ivory dress purchased from a bridal outlet. Harrison cried when he saw me, then denied it to anyone who mentioned it.
Vivian wore black.
After the ceremony, Harrison took my hand and led me through the mansion’s front doors.
The house was nearly a century old, with dark wood walls, tall windows and a staircase that divided beneath an enormous chandelier.
I had visited before, but entering as Harrison’s wife made every room feel different.
