Chapter 3

Wedding rehearsal. The Breakers, main ballroom. Sound system running at half power.

Julian gets halfway down the aisle and stops. Palm pressed to his right ear.

The officiant calls him under the floral arch.

He shakes his head.

"Too loud. I can't hold it here."

Sienna rises from the first row. Walks up to him. Reaches into her Louis Vuitton pouch and produces a pair of custom silicone earplugs.

She rises on her toes. Julian leans down. Lets her fit them in.

They meet each other's eyes. Both smile.

The guards on either side of the hall stare straight ahead. They stopped registering intimacy between the Don and Sienna a long time ago.

Music. My cue.

Julian, earplugs in, is watching Sienna's hem. She's standing too close to the dais step. His eyes stay on her shoes. He's afraid she'll trip.

I stop in front of him. He doesn't lift his head once.

"Julian."

Nothing.

Louder. "Julian."

Still nothing.

Sienna reaches over. Taps his elbow.

He finally lifts his eyes. Reaches for my hand.

His fingers barely brush mine before his gaze slides past my shoulder to the teleprompter. He hasn't prepared a single line for the ceremony.

I pull my hand back.

"We can skip this part."

Julian assumes I'm overheated. He exhales.

"Good. We'll run it tomorrow."

I step aside. Sit down on one of the ballroom chairs. Open my work email.

Three years ago, when Julian was courting me, I'd just finished Harvard Law. He told me the women of the Ashford house don't work.

I didn't agree.

Three years on, I've made senior associate at Cravath. And, on a consultant basis, I've built out—on three patents in my own name—the customs pipeline that turns Ashford Holdings' black books into clean ones.

He doesn't know. He thinks he's the one keeping me.

I send my resignation to Karen in HR. Effective tomorrow.

Rehearsal ends.

The planner puts the ring box in my hand.

A pair. Both GIA-certified loose stones. Four months. Five cities—Manhattan Tiffany flagship, Chestnut Hill, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami—one stone at a time under the loupe.

Sienna leans in for a look.

She slips her own left ring finger into the smaller band. Just testing the fit.

Julian picks up the smaller ring. Grabs Sienna's hand. Slides it on.

"Let's see if it fits."

The ring catches at the second knuckle.

Sienna's finger is thicker than mine. Won't go on. Won't come off.

The joint starts going purple.

Julian panics. Plunges her hand into ice water. Works it back and forth.

Sienna's eyes rim red. The joint shifts from purple to blue.

Julian raises a hand toward the back of the hall.

Two capos step out of the shadows. The one in front carries a small black leather case—the kit the family uses for jewelry maintenance. Rings, cufflinks, tie bars.

The capo drops to one knee in front of Sienna. Looks up at Julian. Julian nods.

The case opens. A full miniature jeweler's set, arranged by size. He selects a jeweler's ring cutter. The jaws thin as a blade.

The jaws bite in against the inside of the band. Metal on metal. A millimeter at a time.

Sienna trembles. Julian cups her wrist with one hand, presses her shoulder down with the other. His voice pitched low.

"Look at me. Don't make a sound. There are family men here."

Thirty seconds. The band hits the floor in two pieces.

The capo rises. Gathers both halves. Extends them to Julian with the deference the position calls for. Julian takes them. Doesn't look. Sets them on the chair beside him.

He's already checking Sienna's finger for broken skin. Turns to me over his shoulder.

"What size did you pick, Nora. Too narrow. If you hadn't insisted on that cut, her finger wouldn't have caught."

"Whatever. Get a plain band tomorrow. I don't want the other families laughing at us."

That center stone. I spent four months with a loupe on it, under every angle of light.

The day we chose it, he held my hand and said the stone was the anchor of our marriage.

No flaw permitted.

I pry the center stone off the setting. Drop it in my clutch.

Nine that night I call a private buyer in the 47th Street diamond district. Someone I'd cleared through diligence for a Cravath client three years ago. He verifies the GIA number.

Sixty-three thousand. Cash.

I take it.

Then I log into our joint Chase account.

Every dollar I put in for the wedding. Deposit. Retainer. Fitting fees. All mine. Not one dollar from the Ashford family—Julian said family funds went through a separate channel, that these "personal expenses" would be squared up "later, in one shot."

I move every line back to my own name.

Joint balance: $0.00.

Julian's bandaging Sienna's finger while the last transfer clears.

Careful. Pressing the gauze flat so no water gets in when she showers.

I close my phone. Look at the two halves of the band on the floor.

Nice setwork.

Not worth anything now.