Chapter 7

My roar made Arthur Young visibly flinch.

Before he could speak, I raised a hand to stop him. "Mr. Young, you heard your daughter clearly, didn't you?"

"If I don't respond, the world will think the Shaws are easy targets."

Preston burst out laughing beside Isabella. "What? Did I hear that right? You want me to pay?"

"Kid, do you have any idea who I am? Do you know why they call me 'The Prince of Manhattan'?"

Arthur Young had arrived at the venue twenty minutes after my grandfather's call, his driver breaking every speed limit in the city.

He'd walked in expecting a wedding. He found a war.

"Dad—" Isabella started.

"Quiet." Arthur's voice was barely above a whisper, but it silenced the room more effectively than any shout.

He turned to me, and I saw something I hadn't expected—not anger, but shame.

"Mr. Shaw. Sebastian." He straightened his tie, a nervous habit. "I owe you an apology. I had no idea about the agreement, about Wesley's arrangement, about any of this."

"I believe you, Mr. Young." And I did. Arthur Young was old-school. He valued handshakes and honor. His daughter had clearly not inherited those values.

Preston, oblivious to the shifting dynamics, clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Arthur, relax. The Vanderbilts will take excellent care of your daughter. Think of it as an upgrade."

Arthur looked at Preston's hand on his shoulder the way one might look at a cockroach on fine china.

"Remove your hand, Mr. Vanderbilt."

"Excuse me?"

"I said remove your hand. You're touching a man who was doing billion-dollar deals while your father was still in business school."

The room gasped. Arthur Young, the mild-mannered retail magnate, had fangs after all.

"Wesley." Arthur turned to the assistant with an expression that could curdle steel. "You're fired. Effective immediately. My legal team will be in contact regarding your breach of fiduciary duty."

Wesley's bluster evaporated. "Mr. Young, I can explain—"

"You orchestrated a scheme to derail my daughter's marriage to the Shaw family—the single most important business relationship of my career—so you could collect a commission from the Vanderbilts."

Wesley opened his mouth.

"Security will escort you out."

Two guards appeared at the door as if choreographed.

As Wesley was led away, he shot me one last venomous look. I gave him a pleasant wave.

Preston, now stripped of his inside man, looked considerably less princely. "Arthur, you're making a mistake. The Vanderbilts—"

"The Vanderbilts will do what they've always done—overleverage and underdeliver." Arthur's voice was cold. "I've seen your books, Preston. Wesley wasn't the only one doing due diligence."

He turned back to me. "Sebastian, I know I have no right to ask. But is there any way to salvage this?"

I considered it. Looked at Isabella, who was standing in her couture gown, mascara threatening to run, looking for the first time like a lost girl rather than a Manhattan ice queen.

"That depends entirely on your daughter, Mr. Young."