At 11:30 a.m., I stood in the vestibule of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the heavy wooden doors separating me from the five hundred guests inside.

My father stood beside me, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped cane.

He looked incredibly pale, his eyes clouded with the medication Adrian’s doctor was secretly over-prescribing.

To everyone else in the vestibule, William Sterling looked like a defeated, broken billionaire, tragically watching his only daughter marry a man he despised but was too weak to stop.

But as the organist began to play the opening notes of the bridal chorus, my father leaned his head toward mine.

“Marisol sent the signal,” my father whispered, his voice suddenly sharp, entirely stripped of the confusion that had plagued him for months.