For The Fifth Vow
There was laughter, bad dancing, and the promise of a peaceful weekend.
Until Mabel arrived.
The elevator doors opened like the gates of trouble, and out stepped Mabel du Prée: head wrapped in black silk, pearls that could deflect bullets, and a smile that knew something the rest of the room didn’t.
“Oh, Lord,” Marvella muttered under her breath. “Here come the national anthem of bad timing.”
Ruth leaned toward Abigail. “That’s the aunt?”
“The one who thinks the devil just misunderstood,” Abigail whispered.
Mabel’s heels clicked across the marble like punctuation marks. “Ladies! Don’t stop on my account. I just came to bring a little family flavor to the festivities.”
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