They never invited me to their weddings, so I rented a castle and threw a celebration just for myself. When they asked what it was for, I smiled and said: the union between me and success.
Chapter 1: The Invitation That Never Arrived
The Breakers mansion in Newport, Rhode Island, stood like a fortress of wealth on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Today was the most important day of the summer for the elite: the wedding of Isabella Vance—my sister—and Preston Sterling, heir to a banking family.
I, Leo Vance, sat in my black Rolls-Royce Phantom, parked on a hill about a mile away. Through binoculars, I saw the enormous white tents, hundreds of guests in designer clothes, and my parents beaming with smiles as they greeted guests.
They had never sent me an invitation.
Three months ago, when I called my mother to ask about the wedding, she mumbled, “Oh, Leo, it’s just a small, intimate family gathering. You’re busy starting your business in Silicon Valley, don’t bother flying back.”
A small ceremony with 500 guests. And “family” included everyone except me – the second son they always considered eccentric, the one who dropped out of Stanford to pursue what my father called “the dreamers’ game.”
They were ashamed of me. They feared I – with my (imaginary) impoverished and slovenly appearance – would ruin the perfect picture of the Vance family. They needed this marriage to solidify their status.
I put down my binoculars. I adjusted the diamond cufflinks on my shirt cuffs.
“Mr. Vance,” my driver, a former SEAL, turned around. “Everything at Marble House is ready. Would you like to go there now?”
“Go there,” I said. “It’s time to start my own party.”
Chapter 2: A Party for One
Marble House, another castle in Newport, was separated from The Breakers by a hedge. It was far more opulent, luxurious, and expensive than where my sister held her wedding.
I rented it for $500,000 a night.
But I didn’t invite anyone. No friends, no business partners, no models.
In the vast, gold-plated ballroom, there was only a single long table in the center. On it were laid out exquisite delicacies: Almas caviar, Kobe beef, white truffles.
I sat at the head of the table, alone.
But the atmosphere was anything but quiet.
I had hired the New York Philharmonic Orchestra – all 100 musicians. They were seated at the far end of the hall, playing Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 at full volume.
And out in the garden, directly facing my sister’s wedding, I had installed a giant LED screen and a powerful sound system, live-streaming… of myself dining.
Music from my castle thundered across to the wedding next door. The LED screen illuminated a whole corner of the sky, overshadowing the romantic lights of the party on the other side.
The attention of the 500 guests on my sister’s side began to waver. They looked over. They saw the insane grandeur on this side. They saw me – Leo Vance – sitting alone dining amidst an absurd luxury.
My phone started ringing.
Dad. Mom. Isabella.
I didn’t answer. I cut a piece of steak, took a sip of Château Lafite Rothschild 1787 (worth $160,000 a bottle).
15 minutes later.
The large doors of Marble House were slammed shut.
My father, Richard Vance, burst in with my mother and Isabella (still in her wedding dress). Preston, the groom, followed behind, looking bewildered.
“What are you doing?!” my father yelled, his voice drowned out by the symphony music. He lunged forward, gesturing for the conductor to stop.
The conductor looked at me. I nodded slightly. The music stopped abruptly. The sudden silence made my father’s gasping breaths clearly audible.
“Leo!” my mother hissed, her face flushed with anger. “You’re ruining your sister’s wedding! What did you rent this place for? Why are you here alone? Are you insane?”
Isabella glanced around the gilded hall, at the bottle of wine on the table, her eyes shifting between contempt and… envy.
“You’re deliberately humiliating me, aren’t you?” Isabella shouted. “You want everyone to look over here instead of the bride! You selfish jerk!”
I calmly wiped my mouth with a napkin. I didn’t stand up. I looked at them with a calm gaze.
“My parents and sister never invited me to their weddings,” I said softly. “So I rented a castle and threw a party just for myself. I thought I deserved to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?” my father yelled. “Celebrate your failure? Where did you get the money to rent this place? Or did you borrow money at exorbitant interest rates just to show off?”
Preston, the groom, took a step forward. He was a finance man; he looked at the bottle of wine on the table and recognized its value. He looked at the suit I was wearing – a bespoke design without a logo, but the tailoring was worth tens of thousands of dollars. His expression changed.
“Leo,” Preston asked cautiously. “What are you celebrating?”
I smiled. A smile I’d practiced hundreds of times in front of the mirror for this moment.
“The reason?” I raised my glass, gazing through the deep red liquid.
“The combination of me and success.”
Chapter 3: The Twist of Collapse
“Success?”
My father sneered. “You’ve sold some crappy software, haven’t you? How much? Enough to pay the rent for this place?”
I set my glass down. I pulled a leather-bound file from under the table.
“Dad,” I said. “Do you know why your company, Vance Construction, hasn’t been able to secure bank loans for the past six months?”
My father’s face changed color. It was a closely guarded business secret. The company was on the verge of bankruptcy, and this wedding was a last-ditch effort to create a glamorous facade to attract investors or merge with the Preston family.
“And Mom,” I turned to my mother. “Do you know why Grandma’s Trust suddenly got frozen for an audit?”
“How… how do you know?” My mother stammered.
“Because,” I opened the file. “The person blocking Dad’s cash flow, and the person buying up his company’s bad debts… is me.”
The entire room fell silent.
“For the past three years,” I continued, my voice sharp. “My ‘nonsense’ startup – Nexus AI – has developed an automated financial trading algorithm. Last week, Nexus AI was valued at $2 billion after a Series C funding round. But I didn’t sell it. I used it to acquire cheap assets.”
I tossed the file toward Preston.
“Preston, you should read this before signing the marriage certificate. This is the real financial report of the Vance family. They’re $50 million in debt. They’re not marrying Isabella to you out of love. They need your family’s cash flow to save them from jail for tax fraud.”
Preston snatched the file. He flipped through the pages. His face turned from rosy to death.
“Isabella?” Preston turned to the bride. “You said your father owns 10 buildings in Manhattan?”
“Everything’s mortgaged,” I answered for her. “And the current creditor… is me.”
Isabella lunged forward, intending to snatch the file, but Preston stepped back. He looked at my family with disgust.
“You’re all frauds!” Preston yelled. He tore off the boutonnière and threw it to the ground. “The wedding is canceled! I won’t let the Sterling family get involved in this mess!”
He turned and walked away, ignoring Isabella’s cries and pleas.
Chapter 4: The End of the Party
My father slumped into his chair. He looked at me, not as a father would look at his son, but as a debtor would look at a creditor. The arrogance, the contempt… all had vanished, leaving only raw fear.
“Leo…” he whispered. “You… you did this to the family?”
“Family?” I stood up and walked around the long table. “What family wouldn’t invite their son to his sister’s wedding for fear of embarrassment? What family would call their child’s dreams rubbish?”
I stopped in front of my mother.
“You’re right, Mom. This is a small ceremony. A pathetic amount compared to what I’ve achieved.”
I pointed to the door.
“Now, please leave. My venue rental has four hours left. And I want to enjoy my dessert in peace.”
“Leo! You can’t do that! We’ll go bankrupt!” Isabella yelled, her makeup smudged. “Preston’s gone! What am I going to do?”
“You could start by finding a job,” I said coldly. “I heard my company is hiring receptionists. If you apply, I’ll consider it.”
“You’re a devil!” My father stood up, about to lunge at me.
But two large bodyguards emerged from the shadows, blocking his way.
“Please, sir,” the bodyguard said.
They were escorted out of Marble House.
I returned to the table. I gestured to the conductor.
“Continue, Maestro. Symphony No. 9, Movement 4: Triumphal March.”
The music resumed, majestic and brilliant.
I sat there, cutting a piece of melt-in-your-mouth Kobe beef. Outside the window, I saw the white tents on The Breakers’ side bustling about. Preston had left. Guests were whispering about the scandal. The wedding of the century had become the laughingstock of the century.
I raised my glass, looking at my reflection.
They hadn’t invited me to their wedding. But in the end, they were the uninvited guests at my victory celebration.
I hadn’t just married success. I used that success to buy back the self-respect they had stolen from me over the years.
And its taste… sweeter than any wedding cake.
