I stood frozen, paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the betrayal. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I felt small, stripped naked in front of four hundred strangers.
“And look at this dress,” Mrs. Vance mocked, dangling the torn veil. “White. As if you possess any purity. As if you possess any worth.”
She raised the glass of wine. It was a deep, dark Cabernet.
“Let’s fix the color palette, shall we? White doesn’t suit a discard.”
She didn’t hesitate. She threw the wine.
Splash.
The cold liquid hit me full in the face. It blinded me for a second, stinging my eyes, filling my nose with the sharp scent of alcohol. It dripped down my chin, soaking into the bodice of the gown, turning the pristine silk into a blood-red ruin.
The crowd gasped again. Then, slowly, horribly, a few people in the front row—friends of Mrs. Vance—began to titter.
“Oh, look at her,” Mrs. Vance laughed. “A stained bride for a stained life. Now, get out of my sight. You’re cluttering the stage. Go back to your bedpans, nurse.”
I sank to my knees. The weight of the dress, now heavy with wine, dragged me down. I couldn’t breathe. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing my lungs, pressing the air out of my chest.
I closed my eyes, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. I wished I could dissolve. I wished I had never met Ryan Vance.
“Get up!” Mrs. Vance hissed, off-mic now. “Leave before I have security throw you out.”
Through the blur of red tears and wine, I saw movement.
From the back of the church, a figure was moving. He wasn’t rushing. He was walking with a terrifying, rhythmic purpose. The sound of his polished black oxfords striking the marble floor echoed like gunshots.
Click. Click. Click.
The laughter in the room died instantly. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Mrs. Vance looked up. Her sneer faltered.
The figure stepped onto the altar. He towered over Mrs. Vance. He radiated a power so absolute that it made the air crackle.
It was Julian Thorne.
He didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t look at the mother. He knelt down beside me, ignoring the wine pooling on the floor that threatened his distinctively expensive suit.
A hand—strong, warm, and steady—touched my shoulder.
“Look at me, Maya,” a voice whispered. It was low, dangerous, and surprisingly gentle.
I opened my stinging eyes. Julian’s face was inches from mine. His eyes were dark pools of fury, but the fury wasn’t directed at me.
“Don’t fall apart,” he commanded softly. “Not when you’re about to win.”
