Ma mère a qualifié mon mariage de honteux — mais ce qu’ils allaient voir était terrifiant.

I ended the call and stood there under the string lights, listening to laughter around me like it belonged to another world.

The first dance came and went in a blur. Jake’s hands were steady on my waist. People cried. Toasted. Cheered.

Somewhere between cake cutting and bouquet toss, I realized I was done waiting for my parents to decide my fate.

If there was one thing they respected, it was power.

And tonight, for the first time in my life, I had more of it than they did.

I slipped away from the dance floor toward the side entrance of the garden where staff came and went. The air was cooler there, the music muffled like it was behind glass.

I pulled the envelope from my clutch and turned it over in my hands.

It was small. Flimsy paper.

It felt heavier than any speech my father had ever given.

Inside was the USB drive and a single printed note—no threats, no drama, just one sentence:

If anything happens to me or Jake, this goes to the press.

Beneath it were three journalist email addresses—people who’d spent years trying to crack the spotless Taylor image.

Earlier that week, I’d set up the rest: a scheduled release, a cloud folder, a failsafe.

I’d told myself I’d never really use it.

Tonight, I updated the timing on my phone.

Not because I wanted chaos.

Because my mother had just threatened me, and my father was the kind of man who protected his career like a living thing.

A safety net and a loaded gun at the same time.

“You look like you’re about to talk yourself out of something,” Daniel said, suddenly beside me.

I jumped.

“Do you ever mind your own business?” I muttered.

“Not when my cousin is about to start a personal war with a sitting senator,” he said dryly. “If you’re going to do this, do it with your eyes open.”

“I have never seen things more clearly,” I said. “They think they can bully me forever. They think they can threaten Jake—my job—my future. They forget I know exactly where their bodies are buried.”

Daniel studied me, then nodded.

“Then make sure they understand you’re serious,” he said. “Don’t bluff with people who assume you’re too soft to follow through.”

Before I could reply, a hush fell over the nearest tables. I felt it—like the air tightened.

Then I saw her.

Martha had arrived at the reception.

She walked in like she owned the place, flanked by two of my father’s longtime donors and a woman from his campaign staff. Every instinct screamed this wasn’t a social visit.

Guests parted around her, unsure whether to greet her or pretend they didn’t see.

She barely looked at anyone.

Her eyes locked on me.

“Round two,” Daniel murmured. “Want backup?”

“I have it,” I said, glancing toward the dance floor where Jake had noticed her and was already heading over. “Stay close anyway.”

Martha reached me faster than I expected. Up close she looked flawless, but there was a tightness around her mouth I’d never seen.

Fear. Anger. Desperation.

Maybe all three.

“Congratulations,” she said. The word sounded brittle. “I see you went through with it.”

“Nice of you to join us,” I replied. “Too bad Dad couldn’t find the time between fundraisers.”

Her jaw clenched. “Your father is doing important work. Unlike you, trying to burn everything down because you want to play Rebel Bride.”

Jake stepped up beside me and placed a hand on the small of my back.

“Martha,” he said evenly, “this is our wedding. If you came here to insult Sophie, you can leave.”

She shot him a look like he was a stain.

“Don’t talk to me about respect when you’ve dragged my daughter into your small, mediocre life,” she said. “You have no idea what she’s throwing away for you.”

“I’m throwing away a cage,” I said. “I’m not sure that counts as a loss.”

Guests were watching now—pretending not to. The band shifted to something softer, giving our confrontation an unwanted soundtrack.

Martha stepped closer and lowered her voice so only the three of us could hear.

“Enough theatrics,” she said. “We both know you’re not going to do anything. You’re emotional, not stupid. You will not risk prison, lawsuits, or public humiliation just to spite us.”

“Funny,” I said. “I was thinking the same thing about you and Dad.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have nothing. You saw a few out-of-context files and decided you’re some kind of hero. Do you know how ridiculous that is?”

I pulled the envelope from my clutch and held it up.

Her gaze snapped to it like metal to a magnet.

“You’re wrong,” I said calmly. “I have enough to end both of your careers. Enough to make every gala committee erase your names. Enough to make the word Taylor trend for all the wrong reasons.”

Color drained from her face for the briefest moment—then she masked it.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she whispered.

“Try me,” I said.

Jake looked between us, confusion shifting into realization.

“Sophie,” he asked quietly, “what is that?”

“It’s the reason they’re so sure I’ll crawl back,” I said, never taking my eyes off my mother. “And the reason I won’t.”

I pressed the envelope into Martha’s hand. She didn’t reach at first, so I took her fingers and closed them around it myself.

Her skin was cold.

“In there is a drive,” I said. “On it are copies of everything you’re afraid I saw—along with a note. I already backed it up. It’s already scheduled. If you try to destroy that or pretend this conversation never happened, it won’t matter.”

Martha stared at me like she didn’t recognize me.

“But if you stop threatening me,” I continued, voice steady, “if you leave Jake and me alone, if you accept that I’m not your project anymore… then maybe it never has to see daylight.”

Her fingers tightened around the envelope until the paper crinkled.

“You are blackmailing your own parents on your wedding day,” she said slowly.

“I’m giving you a choice,” I corrected. “For once.”

Her eyes glittered with anger.

“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” she hissed. “Do you think the people behind your father will let you do this? Do you think they’ll watch you hold a gun to his head?”

I swallowed and forced myself not to flinch.

“Then maybe they should’ve picked better allies,” I said. “I’m done being collateral damage.”

Jake’s hand slid into mine, anchoring me.

“Whatever this is,” he said quietly, “we face it together.”

Martha looked between us, her expression twisting.

“You will regret this,” she said finally. “When this blows back on you, don’t expect us to save you.”

“I’m not asking you to save me,” I replied. “I’m asking you to stop trying to destroy me.”

She turned and walked away, clutching the envelope like a live grenade. Her donors hurried after her, whispering.

For the rest of the evening, I went through the motions: speeches, dances, photos. I laughed when people expected laughter. Smiled when cameras appeared.

But part of me was listening for something else.

My phone stayed silent for almost an hour.

I started to wonder if she’d called my bluff. If she’d tossed the envelope into a trash can and dared me to burn everything down.

Then my phone lit up.

Dad.

Mom.

Dad again.

Three missed calls in under two minutes.

A text from Emily: What did you give them? They are freaking out.

When they finally saw what I handed them, they did exactly what I knew they would do.

They panicked.

I didn’t answer their calls. Not at first. I watched my phone vibrate against the table beside the guest book like a trapped insect.

Dad. Mom. Dad again.

One voicemail came through—no words, just the sound of my father breathing hard like he’d just finished yelling at someone else.

Jake and I slipped into a small side room the venue had set aside for us—a quiet space with a couch and a mirror and flowers that suddenly felt absurd. The music was muffled through the walls.

It should’ve been peaceful.

Instead, I stared at my phone like it could explode.

“Talk to me,” Jake said gently, closing the door. “Whatever’s happening, I want to know.”

I’d spent years trying to protect him from the worst parts of my family. Tonight, hiding felt pointless—maybe even dangerous.

I took a deep breath.

“Remember how I told you the foundation isn’t as noble as it looks?” I asked.

Jake nodded. “Shady donations. Money disappearing.”

“It’s worse than shady,” I said. “It’s criminal. Kickbacks. Shell companies. Tax evasion. I found proof months ago. I copied it.”

His brows knit. “And that envelope…”