Rosalind arrived at the Grand Plaza with her heart pounding.
She found Emerson in the bridal suite in his tuxedo, looking so much like his late father that it nearly broke her.
“Emerson,” she said quietly, lifting the edge of the wig just enough to show her bare scalp.
“Portia did this.”
He went pale — but Portia stepped out from behind the dressing screen in her white gown, flawless and radiant and venomous.
“Oh, Rosalind,” she gasped smoothly.
“Whatever happened to your hair?”
“You know exactly what happened,” Rosalind said.
Emerson’s brow creased with annoyance.
“Mom, please.