Shawn Reid The final weeks before the wedding had become a beautiful kind of chaos. Invitations were sent, the Plaza ballroom was confirmed, and the city’s elite — judges, federal prosecutors, Reid Capital executives — had all RSVPed. But nothing prepared me for the moment my mother, Mayette, called me into her private study overlooking Central Park. She didn’t waste words. “I’m gifting you the villa in the Maldives,” she said, sliding a sleek folder across the mahogany desk. “Fully staffed. Private beach. Complete seclusion for three weeks. Consider it my wedding present to both of you.” I stared at the documents — deeds, keys, security protocols, and a schedule for the private jet. The Maldives. Crystal waters, overwater villas, absolute privacy. The kind of place where the system’s reach felt distant and the world narrowed down to just Catriona and me. “Mother… this is too much,” I started, but she raised a hand. “You’ve fought hard for this, Shawn. For her. I see how
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