A Killer Wedding: A Novel

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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780063432215

Dedication

To my husband, Tom

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue: Gloria

One: Christine

Two: Christine

Three: Gloria

Four: Christine

Five: Jane

Six: Christine

Seven: Lyle

Eight: Christine

Nine: Trey

Ten: Christine

Eleven: Gloria

Twelve: Christine

Thirteen: Maggie

Fourteen: Christine

Fifteen: Elliot

Sixteen: Christine

Seventeen: Father Kenneth

Eighteen: Christine

Nineteen: Clementine

Twenty: Christine

Twenty-One: Ben

Twenty-Two: Christine

Twenty-Three: Lyle

Twenty-Four: Christine

Twenty-Five: The Cop

Twenty-Six: Christine

Twenty-Seven: Jane

Twenty-Eight: Christine

Twenty-Nine: Graham

Thirty: Christine

Thirty-One: Seamus

Thirty-Two: Christine

Thirty-Three: Sebi

Thirty-Four: Christine

Thirty-Five: Christine

Thirty-Six: Gloria

Thirty-Seven: Christine

Thirty-Eight: Gloria

Thirty-Nine: Mac

Forty: Christine

Forty-One: Christine

Forty-Two: Christine

Forty-Three: Mac

Forty-Four: Christine

Forty-Five: Neil

Forty-Six: Seamus

Forty-Seven: Mac

Forty-Eight: Seamus

Forty-Nine: Christine

Fifty: Lyle

Fifty-One: Jane

Epilogue: Jane

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

Gloria

August 30, 1974

Charleston, South Carolina

GLORIA BEAUFORT CLUTCHES HER NECKLACE, a gold pendant featuring an etching of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. Saint Christopher is also the patron saint of sudden death, but most people don’t know that fun fact, she thinks as she steps out of her lawyer’s office and into the snarling Charleston heat.

Everything’s changed now. Back in the Smithy & Meyers office, her signature on the divorce papers is nearly dry. A fifty-fifty split  . .  of her baby. Not her actual baby, of course (though they’ll split him too). No, the company she grew from nothing, not John. Gloria pulls out a silver compact. Her face is an angry red—and shouldn’t it be? Sweat drips from beneath her feathery blond hair, down her face, and practically sizzles when it lands on the concrete. Touching her head, she feels her once perfectly coiffed waves sticking up in every direction thanks to the humidity. Apparently, not even a full can of Aqua Net can help her keep it together anymore. She looks how she feels: hot and bothered.

A woman walks out of Berlin’s laden with shopping bags and lowers her sunglasses to give Gloria the once-over. Where is Charlie? A thump of panic begins in her chest. Did she not say to pick her up at 11:30 a.m. sharp?

The weight of gawking eyes is too much for her right now. She is in no mood to take pictures with housewives doing their weekly errands. Her rage simmers as the company’s black Mercedes pulls into view. Finally.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Ripton. Charlie scrambles to open her car door, as he should. Her eyes flit down to her gold Cartier Tank watch—11:34 a.m.

Charlie, you know how I feel about tardiness. She climbs into the Mercedes with a huff as he closes the door behind her.

Sorry, ma’am, the traffic  . .  He expertly lets his excuse fade out, as he’s become prone to do in recent years.

Never mind. She flicks her wrist. She’ll let it slide. And it’s Miss Beaufort now. Gloria melts into the cold camel interior of her ride. She thinks back to picking this car out at the dealership, just after they took Glo public. She smiles remembering the shock of the oily car salesman, who smelled like sautéed onions, as he watched her write the check for the full amount. Every time she sinks into one of the car’s rich seats, she tingles with pride.

"Right-o, Miss Beaufort. I like it. An elegant name, anyway. Suits ya." Charlie meets her eyes with a sad smile. It just about puts Gloria over the edge. Why should anyone feel sorry for her? They should feel sorry for John Ripton! It’s him everyone should be worried about. Gloria is the face, CEO, and lifeblood of Glo, the leading beauty brand of the Southeast. If she stays on this trajectory, one day Glo will be the leading beauty brand of the world! And she’s done it all as a woman. A young woman at that. Everything she touches turns to gold, and everything John Ripton touches turns out to be somebody else’s wife.

The car glides down King Street toward her home on South of Broad. Normally, she’d never be caught dead in Charleston before October 1, but since she and John were married here and their marriage license was filed here, she gets to burn in the hell that is August in Lowcountry. Whatever—the details don’t matter. What does matter is the irony. Getting divorced in the Holy City. Jesus Christ, Gloria mutters  . .  and then smirks. A joke just for herself.

She can’t run the company with John, she just can’t. Their partnership is completely over on all fronts. She can’t even look at him. And if Gloria really allowed herself to go there, to that dark place in the back of her mind that’s been starved of vitamin D, she’d admit that she never even wanted to marry John in the first place. He was a convenience. She just needed to get out of her parents’ house.

They pass St. Agnes, a beautiful white cathedral. Somehow, even in the maddening heat, it looks tranquil.

Charlie, take me to church. Gloria closes her eyes and says a prayer.

Of course, but I don’t believe there’s a mass scheduled, he says gently. Gloria knows this.

I need to speak with Father. You can come back for me in an hour. Charlie turns the car around and doesn’t press further. This is why she tolerates his occasional tardiness.

Yes, ma’am. Shall I have Ursula fix Trey’s lunch? Their eyes meet again in the rearview mirror. He smiles broadly, his jolly face working overtime to suppress his clear judgment. Or maybe Gloria’s just seeing her own guilt reflected, because she had momentarily forgotten about Trey, her actual baby. Naturally, her husband couldn’t care less about a fifty-fifty split of him. The resentment starts to harden in her heart.

Sure, fine. Tell him I’ll be home for supper. She flicks her wrist again, signaling that the conversation is over. Charlie curbs the car at St. Agnes. The priests have come and gone over the years, but the solid white building has remained perfectly the same as the world changed within and around it.

Seeing her childhood parish puts Gloria at ease. This will be simpler than she thought. Gloria modeled her company after the church; emphasizing the importance of service, community, commitment, and faith to her employees—and instilling a good bit of fear and guilt into them too, for good measure. She steps back out into the heat, but this time she is a part of it. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. That’s what they say isn’t it? And sometimes—well, sometimes you have to put a situation in God’s hands. She smooths out her black Chanel pencil skirt and marches up the stone parish steps.

A year later, Gloria’s young and healthy ex-husband dies suddenly of heart failure. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

One

Christine

Thursday, October 16

Ballymoon Castle Hotel, Ireland

CHRISTINE’S ENTIRE BODY TINGLES AS her driver slows down in front of a massive wrought iron gate. She’s made it—in every sense. She made it through the six-and-a-half-hour flight from New York City to Shannon, Ireland (thanks to the unlimited glasses of red wine); she made it through the arrival terminal with her gigantic and miraculously underweight suitcase; she made it to her personal driver (!!!) idling in a gorgeous brand-new Mercedes sedan. And now she’s made it to the wedding venue where she will—for the first time—be the lead editor on Bespoke Weddings’ biggest feature of the year: the wedding of Jane Murphy and Dr. Graham Ripton, heir to the world’s most iconic beauty empire, Glo.

Outside her tinted passenger window, Christine catches a glimpse of a gleaming bronze plaque that reads Ballymoon Castle Hotel. She can’t help it; she lets a tiny squeal of excitement escape her throat. This is really happening. The car chugs along the gravel road as she soaks it all in: the lush green hills, the moody gray sky, the flame-dipped autumn trees that line the bumpy drive. It’s all more perfect than she could have imagined. And she’s imagined it a lot.

Elliot Adler is waiting on the front steps, waving to Christine as the car pulls up outside the grand entrance of the castle hotel. He looks extremely suave in his loose-fitting light-wash Rag & Bone jeans, thick white T-shirt, and green velvet slippers—like he owns the luxury estate himself. Which, for the weekend, he essentially does. For the past decade, the event planner has been at the helm of beauty billionaire and Glo founder Gloria Beaufort’s soirees, family weddings included. Christine waves back at Elliot, grinning as his high cheekbones, elfish nose, and signature round glasses come into full view.

The driver puts the glistening black car in park and rushes around to open her passenger door. Christine already feels herself getting used to the royal treatment as she steps out onto the gravel and into the crisp October air. Sure, she’s been at many high-profile weddings before, but never in a position of authority—never as the sole senior editor. At the last wedding she attended, in Venice over the summer, she’d actually fallen out of a gondola and into the Grand Canal, because the photographer kept telling her to move so that she wouldn’t be in the couple’s rehearsal dinner entrance shot. So yeah, nobody was exactly opening private Mercedes doors for her before today. Actually, up until very recently, she’d been the one in charge of door opening  . .  if she wasn’t already carrying her boss’s garment bags.

Speak of the devil—Christine feels her phone vibrate in her slouchy Chloé travel tote. She just knows it’s Bespoke’s editor in chief, Sandra Yoon, checking in. Christine grimaces. Sandra is not taking it well that Gloria Beaufort specifically requested only Christine to cover this wedding weekend, stating that Jane and Graham "didn’t need a Bespoke army invading the place."

Christine imagines her boss almost snapped the base of her champagne flute when Gloria delivered the news over their lunch at Bergdorf’s following the Bespoke Ball last month. Sandra probably had to bite her tongue so hard, she must have drawn blood. Normally, Bespoke Weddings was just a blip on the editor in chief’s star-studded radar. After all, she had the entire Bespoke brand to see to! But when it came to anything involving industry titans like Gloria Beaufort, Sandra liked to be heavily (some might say overly) involved.

She’ll deal with Sandra later, though. For now, Christine smooths her shiny strawberry-blond hair (she paid extra for gloss on top of her already out-of-budget highlights, but she thinks it was worth it), checks her teeth on the back of her metallic phone case, and gets out of the car to greet Elliot.

Here she is! The fabulous Christine Russo that Sandra can’t stop bragging about. He grins and wraps her in a quick hug that feels more like he’s shaking her by the shoulders. Christine smiles tightly, reading between the lines; she knows Sandra hasn’t been bragging to Elliot but more likely bitching to him about Christine representing Bespoke Weddings this weekend.

Hi, Elliot. Good to see you again, she says, looking around. This place is just  . .  wow. They’ve met dozens of times at weddings over the years, but this is the first time Elliot’s ever acknowledged her presence with more than a distracted half smile. Except for one time at that wannabe-ranchers-but-actually-from-Brentwood couple’s wedding in Bozeman, Montana, when he momentarily mistook her for the florist and chewed her out about the horrendous quality of the wild bergamot, throwing his twelve-hundred-dollar custom cowboy hat on the floor for dramatic effect  . .  But he probably doesn’t remember that encounter.

"Isn’t it just beyond? Elliot marvels. Come on, let me give you a lay of the land." If he felt even a shred of embarrassment at her hint that they’ve met before, he doesn’t show it. The wedding planner trots up the red carpet that coats the enormous castle steps, but Christine finds herself unable to move, completely overcome by the literal fortress in front of her, the castle’s green and gold flags flapping in the chilly Irish breeze. Ballymoon is more impressive up close. It’s built of serious-looking stone that’s been weathered by the many centuries it’s stood on this land. Just below the estate, a glimmering lough sits like a perfectly round black button in the middle of the bright green front lawn. The grass is so verdant that it looks like a picture of itself with the saturation turned all the way up.

The main entrance of the castle is flanked by two sharp turrets, puncturing the stormy clouds above them. Christine’s mind flashes back to the small, white-shuttered Cleveland town house she grew up in—with its yellow-patched front lawn and slightly chipped red front door—and the familiar beginnings of imposter syndrome bubble inside of her. You don’t belong here, her subconscious whispers, but she shakes the thought loose with a shudder. She does belong here—she earned this. She has what it takes to pull this off and prove that she’s worthy of being a senior editor. Even Gloria Beaufort sees something in her. Christine closes her eyes and tries to clear her mind. She can’t afford to be in a bad headspace this weekend.

Elliot stops in front of a large oak door. Chop, chop! he calls cheerily. Two castle employees stand on either side of him like modern millennial knights in expensive hunter-green suits. Christine just stares at him, stunned by her own reality. The autumn leaves rustle around her; it’s like they’re gossiping with one another, and Christine can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but she just knows they’re talking about her. She feels goose bumps prickle her skin and pulls her chunky fisherman knit sweater tightly around her as she lets a gust of wind carry her up the stairs and into the castle.

We’ve probably got about an hour until the family gets back from pheasant hunting, Elliot muses, checking his cell phone.

Pheasant hunting? she asks. Is that even legal?

Does it matter? Elliot shrugs. Christine ponders this for a moment, slightly startled by his bluntness. But he’s right, it doesn’t matter. If it’s illegal, Gloria Beaufort will just write the check to make it okay.

Now come on, it’s time for the grand tour. Elliot claps his hands together, his assortment of gold bangles clanging as he does. He’s got at least five Cartier LOVE bracelets dangling from his left wrist. Christine once heard him joke that it’s his signature breakup gift to himself—his way of turning a bad investment into a good one.

Neil, the hotel attendant—and my impromptu assistant for the weekend—will see to it that your bags are delivered to your suite, Elliot declares. "My assistant, Lizzy, tested positive for Covid literally minutes before leaving for JFK. Honestly, her timing is always impeccable." Elliot grumbles while typing a text on his phone that Christine assumes is an angry one given the velocity of his finger punches.

She turns around to see a gangly teenager (Neil, presumably), struggling to carry her massive T. Anthony luggage up the steps. The eggplant leather suitcase was her promotion gift to herself—and the most money she’s ever spent on anything in her life. Her dad, who’s been wearing the same Christmas sweater every year since his high school days, would have a literal heart attack if he saw the price tag. She flinches as the teen drags it unceremoniously along the stone steps. A bellman mercifully joins in to help him.

Thanks, she calls to them. Sorry, I’m not a light packer, more of a nomadic hoarder.

Elliot lets out a sharp laugh at her joke, then clears his throat and looks up from his phone as they step inside. Well, welcome to Ballymoon! This is just reception. Not much to see here, he says dismissively, and starts walking down a hall. Christine’s eyes rove over the space that Elliot was so quick to write off. It’s a complete work of art. Giant oil portraits of Irish royals grace the mustard-yellow walls, and the hardwood floors are covered in a rich red-and-gold Persian rug that has been meticulously maintained, the crease marks from this morning’s vacuum still fresh. And the smell—what is that smell? Christine sniffs the air. Jasmine, maybe?

In the center of the room, she spots a glossy mahogany table that looks like it should be in a museum. At its center sits an ornate vase teeming with the most spectacular floral arrangement she’s ever seen: a whimsical array of purple, pink, and orange wildflowers and, yes, jasmine spring out in every direction like a colorful splash of water frozen midair.

They’re all picked right on the property, directly from our very own Foxglove Garden. Christine turns her head toward the front desk, where a stout blond woman watches her admiring the floral feat. The woman’s smile is broad and fixed, her lips unmoving as she talks through her grin, like a statue come to life. It’s a bit unnerving.

Gorgeous, Christine says softly.

We can have our groundskeeper put together an arrangement and send it up to your room, Frozen Smile offers. Christine Russo, right?

Oh no, that’s fine, thank you, though. No need to go to the trouble. I can just admire them here! Christine assumes this woman must be the general manager of the hotel, angling for some sort of favorable review of Ballymoon in Bespoke.

It’s not a problem, the woman insists. Please, allow me. We want your stay here to be as grand as possible. I insist.

Did Christine just see her eye twitch or is the jet lag getting to her already?

Er, okay, Christine replies. Thank you, then.

It’s nothing at all! And if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask for Cheryl. The woman gives her a side-smile and a wink before turning to clack away on her keyboard.

Great. Thanks, Cheryl. Christine smiles and turns her attention to the front desk itself—which is literally cut out of the gray stone walls. Someone even went so far as to carve an ornate medieval crest directly above where the woman is standing.

This way, Christine! Elliot chirps, and she turns to follow him down a long maroon hallway. Ballymoon isn’t a dated European castle with drafty halls and musty furniture like one might assume from its ancient exterior. The whole place smells like a fancy department store and boasts impeccable custom furniture in jewel-toned shades and eccentric patterns that somehow work in perfect harmony. And there are modern touches everywhere: a luxury gift shop where a Ballymoon-embroidered baseball hat probably costs fifty dollars, a large (but discreet) flat-screen television broadcasting a golf match, a fitness center with one of those new mirror workout things and, of course, multiple Peloton bikes. It’s the perfect blend of traditional and modern extravagance.

When can I move in? Christine whines longingly as they walk down the hall. She gawks at the pictures that line the walls; this castle hotel has hosted presidents, kings, starlets, and, most impressive, the Beatles.

I know, right? Elliot agrees. And G.B. rented out the whole hotel for a week so we can have complete privacy for the wedding festivities. He claps his hands together again with glee. Elliot doesn’t like to share.

How did the couple decide on Ireland? Christine asks. The wedding planner takes a sharp left and leads Christine into a large foyer, where a skilled pianist sends soothing jazz music floating through the halls.

Jane wanted to pay homage to her late father, who grew up in a small village just a few miles away from Ballymoon. Apparently, as a child, he and his friends played on the castle grounds. So sweet, right? A real full-circle moment for her to get married here. Elliot almost sounds genuine, before quickly adding, And let me just tell you, of all the lavish hotels on the Emerald Isle, Ballymoon is the most iconic  . .  and the only one with enough helipads for the Ripton entourage. Elliot pauses and looks down at his buzzing phone. I need to take this. One sec! He slides his finger over his phone’s screen and strides down the hall shouting into his cell.

As Elliot reems out some poor vendor about delivering napkins in the completely wrong shade of ivory, Christine takes the opportunity to look around and let reality sink in. Her cheeks already hurt from smiling. I’m here. I actually pulled it off.

For the better part of a year, Christine Russo had been manifesting this exact moment, writing, I will cover Graham Ripton’s wedding. I will get promoted to senior editor, over and over in her journal. She recognizes that this kind of behavior is eye roll– inducing at best and borderline psychotic at worst, but she has always been extreme and undeterrable; or to put it in high school terms—an overachiever.

Her parents often recount the story of when Christine was snubbed for editor in chief of her school newspaper in favor of Principal Randall’s C-student daughter, Annalise. In response, Christine published a scathing op-ed that she snuck into the paper mere moments before it went to print, accusing the school administration of nepotism and even hinting at the possible misallocation of school funds by Principal Randall to install a pool in his backyard.

She did eventually get the editor in chief position (and a month of detention), but more impressive, her article prompted the school board to start an investigation into Principal Randall. It turns out he very much was misallocating school funds. Christine was asked to testify at the trial, which provided an excellent topic for her college essay, and before she knew it, she was a Columbia University student with a highly coveted summer internship at the fashion and lifestyle publication: Bespoke. Sure, it wasn’t the New York Times— but it was still within the realm of journalism  . .  and plus, it sounded way sexier. Not to mention, the clothes!

Christine loved every minute of learning about the inner workings of the glamorous magazine—but she especially loved the weddings division. Bespoke Weddings, aka The Bridal Bible, was its own beast entirely, a fascinating microcosm of love, wealth, style, and sharp storytelling. Every morning, before inevitably being asked to run some miscellaneous forgotten item to a shoot, she’d steal a moment to click through photos from the most recent Bespoke Weddings– worthy affair, treating herself to a dizzying blur of five-star hotels in exotic locations that served fashion icons, celebrities, and billionaires. She’d ogle the six-figure custom gowns, the champagne parties on megayachts, and the floral arrangements that were worth more than five—ten, twenty?—times her intern salary, marveling at the luck of the editors who got to go to these events  . .  to cover, capture, and report it all for Bespoke Weddings. Literal dream weavers! Christine was desperate to be one of them.

So, after graduation, she clawed her way back into the iconic publication as the second assistant to editor in chief of Bespoke, Sandra Yoon, eventually becoming a junior editor at Bespoke Weddings, and now, finally, as of this weekend: senior editor.

Christine had learned from a young age that getting what she wanted would sometimes require breaking the rules. So she approached landing the Ripton/Murphy wedding the same way she approached getting the editor in chief position back in high school: by pursuing it so aggressively that landing the assignment was not a matter of if but when. She’d just needed the right opportunity to pitch herself for the job.

And that opportunity had come last month, when she charmed Dr. Graham Ripton’s beauty scion grandmother (the one footing the bill for this weekend’s lavish affair) at the annual Bespoke Ball. Christine knew that if she could get a few minutes alone with Gloria, she could ensure she’d be the one to cover her grandson’s wedding. And she was right.

Okay, finally that’s done with! Elliot says, walking over to her as he slides his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. The vendors over here are just—he chooses his words carefully—not used to my level of attention to detail. He gives her a conspiratorial look.

I totally get it. She nods vigorously, as if she too has a very strong opinion on the various shades of ivory napkins.

Anyway, back to the tour. Here is the castle pub, The Snug. Elliot turns and opens a door to a dimly lit room directly behind them. It’s so adorable and cozy, you’ll just want to curl up in it all weekend, he says.

Christine briefly sticks her head in and catches a glimpse of a beautiful tartan window seat overlooking the lough; a near-empty glass of Guinness sits on a shiny wooden table like it’s been placed there for a magazine shoot. And maybe it has. The castle is well aware of their upcoming Bespoke Weddings feature.

And over here we have the terrace room, Elliot calls from farther down the hall. Christine rushes to catch up, getting a small glimpse of a beautiful room painted robin’s-egg blue, with windows framed by thick cream curtains that overlook the Ballymoon golf course back nine. Just past the course, Christine sees what must be the castle’s famous Foxglove Garden, where the wildflowers in reception hail from, and where the family will host Jane and Graham’s rehearsal dinner tomorrow night. Elliot breezes out of the room quickly, and again Christine chases after him.

It’s amazing how they’ve restored this place and maintained each room for their original purpose. Everything is almost exactly the same as when Ireland’s High King Brian Boru graced these halls  . .  well, besides the spa and fitness center and gift shop and everything, but you get the idea. Elliot turns a corner, and Christine comes face-to-face with a giant taxidermy deer head. The poor animal’s eyes bulge in fear and Christine feels her throat dry up.

Is that real? she asks Elliot, her heart rate quickening.

Well, this isn’t Disney World, so I’d say so, Elliot trills, unperturbed by the stuffed dead animal. He flings open two large oak doors to reveal a massive library complete with a rolling ladder. A fire blazes in a stone hearth that stretches from the hardwood floor to the cavernous ceiling.

This is the Queen Gormlaith Library. She was the third wife of High King Brian Boru. Ballymoon was their family home in the early eleventh century. That’s her there. Elliot points out a giant oil portrait of a pale woman with a mess of wild red hair that hangs over the fireplace.

"Irish historians say that she was responsible for her husband’s untimely death. She was a notorious political schemer and colluded with other Irish kings to take her husband down. Apparently, she was completely evil. Totally gorgeous, though. Isn’t that how it always goes?" They stand in silence for a moment, staring at the painting and listening to the crackling fire. Queen Gormlaith’s almost-translucent green eyes are so intense that Christine feels like she’s staring into the sun. She quickly averts her gaze.

"After Brian Boru was killed, the queen just vanished from the castle. Poof! But nobody saw her leave the grounds. A total medieval Gone Girl situation! Elliot’s eyes linger on the stone hearth directly in front of them. He lowers his voice. There’s a local rumor that Brian Boru had a secret passageway built into the castle walls as an escape route in the event of an enemy invasion  . .  and that the queen tried to use it to flee, but she became disoriented and ended up trapped in the castle walls, never to find her way out  . .  her spirit still haunting Ballymoon to this day." He wiggles his fingers like he’s telling a ghost story around a campfire.

I’m sure that story will put all the guests at ease. Christine laughs nervously.

"Come on, Christine, true crime is so in right now! Everyone’s going to devour the history of this place like the latest Netflix binge." Elliot grins and throws up his hands before power walking out of the room, arms pumping at his sides. Christine follows him, wondering what her step count must be up to at this point.

On the left here is the Brian Boru Suite, Elliot says as he speeds past an ornate wooden door, the king’s original chambers and, of course, G.B.’s personal residence for the weekend. Christine glances at the door briefly before hurrying after Elliot.

"I love that this venue has some meat to it, you know? It was just so much fun researching everything and pulling elements from the castle’s history to use for my vision," the wedding planner prattles on.

All of these details hardly seem romantic, Christine says.

"It’s art, darling. Would you rather them get married in some Barbie Dreamhouse venue in Palm Beach? Talk about pedestrian." Elliot snorts. They continue down the hall, and Christine notices as one of the golden-hued lights above flickers slightly as the wind whips against the castle walls.

I really hope this weather chills the eff out. Elliot sighs. I tried to convince Jane to do the wedding next summer, but she had her heart set on autumn leaves. He stops in front of a set of glass French doors.

This is the drawing room, which will host tonight’s welcome dinner. Elliot leads them into the room. At its center is a long, elegant dining table. The perimeter is striped with floor-to-ceiling windows blanketed in rich emerald-green curtains. On one wall stands a glistening oak bar. A flurry of Elliot’s staffers scuttle about the place in their signature black Elliot Adler polos, toting silver candelabras and lush floral arrangements in preparation for tonight’s event.

"I used Queen Gormlaith’s portrait as inspiration for tonight—all those delicious green hues and that lush navy dress were just too good." Elliot fluffs a floral arrangement that passes by. Then he abruptly stops talking and turns to her expectantly. Probably realizing that Christine hasn’t written a single thing down.

A steel trap, she says, and nervously taps the side of her head. "I