218 Lily

Miranda glided across the ballroom like Maleficent in the christening scene in Sleeping Beauty – albeit more like Angelina Jolie’s version than the greenish-hued harpy in the animated film.

She was dressed to kill, in a white designer dress that managed to be both elegant and reserved while showing enough of her curves to make men drool and women (including me) despise her.

She was on the arm of her new husband. Or maybe a more accurate way to put it was he was hanging onto her arm, because she definitely eclipsed him in beauty, class, and sociopathic poise.

The last time I had seen Vincent Templeton, he looked like a slightly shorter, less attractive version of Connor. Light brown hair instead of black; puffy features; a few extra pounds. Now he was even more bloated, like he’d been hitting the scotch in excess. It didn’t affect the arrogant sneer on his face, though. That was the one area where he excelled over Miranda: the sheer snottiness of his expression.

At the same moment I sa