My daughter was marrying the son of a millionaire. All the guests in that sprawling estate outside Dallas, Texas, admired the perfect couple. They lifted champagne flutes and called it a fairy tale, the American dream wrapped in lace, marble, and money.
They had no idea. Doris Jones stood near the edge of the dance floor, unable to tear her eyes away from her daughter. Simone, in a snow‑white gown embroidered with pearls and crystals, looked like a fairy‑tale princess come to life.
The ballroom of the Sturgis Ancestral Estate, about thirty miles outside Dallas, glowed with warm golden light from massive crystal chandeliers that hung from the high coffered ceiling. The light shimmered on Simone’s dark hair, styled in an elaborate updo, and her train floated behind her like a soft cloud whenever she moved. Standing next to her was Preston Sturgis, tall, distinguished, and wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.
He smiled at the guests with the confident smirk of a man accustomed to getting whatever he desired. Even from where she stood near the back, Doris could see that he looked like every successful son of old money she had ever seen on TV—polished, composed, and utterly sure the world would bend around him. The wedding was being held at the Sturgis Ancestral Estate, the kind of property people in Doris’s part of Dallas only ever saw in glossy magazines or on streaming dramas.
The mansion sat on rolling Texas acreage, with white columns, marble staircases, and a circular driveway where black SUVs and luxury sedans were lined up neatly under the watchful eyes of valet attendants. Inside, the foyer gleamed with polished floors and oil paintings of stern‑faced Sturgis ancestors in gilded frames. Outside, in the garden where tables were set up for the guests, hundreds of roses perfumed the warm May air.
A clear tent stretched over the dance floor, strung with fairy lights and decorated with garlands of fresh flowers imported from California and Florida. Waiters in white gloves glided between the tables, refilling flutes with French champagne. On a separate table near the far end of the tent stood a four‑tiered wedding cake, each layer a careful work of art, frosted with smooth white icing and decorated with sugar flowers.
Doris mechanically adjusted her own outfit, a modest beige dress she’d bought on sale at a local department store in Dallas. Standing next to guests in designer gowns and tailored suits, she felt completely out of place. The women sparkled with diamonds and expensive manicures.
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