I blocked him.
The day of my father's wedding to Astrid, Rosemary treated the venue like a military operation.
Bodyguards everywhere—inside, outside, every entrance and exit locked down tight. She was terrified I'd cause a scene.
She needn't have bothered.
Word had already gone out: anyone who helped me make trouble was declaring war on the Hensons.
No one dared.
I sat alone in my hotel room, tracing my mother's face in an old photograph, tears falling onto the glass. Guilt clawed at my chest.
I'm sorry, Mom. I couldn't protect anything you left me.
That afternoon, Rosemary kicked down my door anyway.
Behind her stood Frederick, his eyes red and swollen.
She stormed across the room and grabbed my collar, her face twisted with rage.
"Roland Sullivan! I never thought you'd sink this low! You had someone play Frederick's private photos at the wedding venue!"
"It's already trending online! How is he supposed to get married now? You're trying to destroy his future!"
I shoved her hand away, genuinely confused.
"What are you talking about—"
Before I could finish, Frederick cut in, voice cracking with theatrical grief.