Chapter 4 - The Groom Walks
Marcus Doyle did not raise his voice. That was what made the next thirty seconds so devastating.
He stood in the center of the parquet dance floor, looking down at Brianna as she clung desperately to his lapels, sobbing hysterically. Her veil was crooked, her expensive makeup smeared, and the silk bodice of her custom designer gown looked ridiculous in the cold light of the exposure.
“Marcus, please,” Brianna begged, her voice ragged and desperate. “We can fix this. We can get the real stone back! It’s just in a safe in the city! We can still get married today. The minister is in the back, the food is paid for—Marcus, look at me!”
Marcus gently, methodically took her fingers by the wrists, lifted them off his jacket, and let them drop.
“The food is paid for by a family of con artists,” Marcus said, his voice flat, hollow, and deadly clear. “My family has been in real estate in this city for forty years. We have an unblemished name. And today, I nearly married an insurance fraudster who stole my dead mother’s legacy to pay off boutique debts.”
“Marcus!” Margaret pleaded, rushing toward him with her hands clasped in front of her chest like a tragic heroine. “Think about the optics! The society pages! Everyone who matters in this town is sitting in this room right now! If you walk out, you will humiliate both of our families!”
Marcus looked at Margaret with a degree of contempt so pure it seemed to physically push her back.
“Your family is already humiliated, Margaret,” Marcus said. “The only thing left to decide is whether I leave as a victim or an accomplice.”
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the gold pocket watch his father had given him for the wedding morning, and placed it on the nearest table. Then he turned to face the two hundred guests.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marcus announced, projecting his voice with practiced professional authority. “The wedding is canceled. I apologize for the waste of your evening. If anyone brought a gift for me, my assistant will contact you to arrange its return. If you brought a gift for Brianna Vance, I suggest you take it with you right now before it gets seized by the district attorney.”
A wave of movement swept through the room. Several guests at the front tables immediately stood up, snatched their purses, and began moving toward the locked doors.
“Marcus, don't do this to me!” Brianna screamed, falling to her knees on the floor. Her heavy train pooled around her like a puddle of ruined milk. “I love you! I did this for our future!”
“You did this because you’re a thief,” Marcus said without looking back.
He walked over to Frank Alvarez and the security detail guarding the locked exit doors. “Officer, may I leave?”
Frank looked at Vanessa, who nodded once. Frank signaled his man, and the heavy double doors clicked unlocked, swinging open just enough to allow Marcus Doyle to walk out into the cold night air, leaving his screaming bride behind him.
Brianna let out an ear-piercing wail and collapsed face-first onto the parquet floor, clutching at the hem of her gown.
Margaret was hyperventilating, her chest heaving as she glared at the fleeing guests. “Stop! Nobody leave! This is private property! Julian, do something! Stop Marcus! Call his father!”
Julian didn’t move. He stood frozen in the middle of the room, looking like a man waking up from a twenty-year coma into a nightmare of his own making.
“Julian!” Margaret barked, her voice cracking with fury. “Are you deaf? Go after your brother-in-law! Fix this!”
“He’s not my brother-in-law, Mom,” Julian whispered, his voice trembling violently. “And you... you lied to me. You made me co-sign that loan. You told me the boutique was fine.”
“I was trying to save our legacy!” Margaret hissed, lunging toward him and grabbing his arm. “I did it for you! For Brianna! For the family!”
“No,” Julian said, pulling his arm out of her grasp with a sudden, violent jerk that made Margaret gasp in shock. “You did it for yourself. Because you couldn't stand the thought of anyone finding out we were broke.”
Julian turned toward me. The desperation in his eyes was pathetic.
“Elena... please,” he choked out, tears finally spilling over his lashes. “Look at me. Look at what they did. I didn’t know. I swear to God I didn’t know. Let’s get you out of here. Let me take you home. Let me take care of you and our baby.”
I looked at the man I had slept beside for three years. The man who had made me tea when I was sick, who had promised to protect me at the altar, who had held my hand during my first ultrasound.
And then I remembered him standing eleven feet away while his mother ripped the fabric off my pregnant body.
“You don't have a home to take me to, Julian,” I said softly.
“What... what are you talking about?”
“The brownstone on 74th Street,” I said. “The one you thought we were renting from a family friend at a discounted rate?”
Julian blinked, his jaw slackening.
“My father owns it,” I said simply. “The lease is in my name alone. Your clothes will be packed and delivered to your mother’s apartment by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Julian’s face drained of the last drop of blood. “Elena, no... you can’t do that. That’s our home. That’s our baby’s nursery!”
“Our baby will have a nursery,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes. “In a home where her father isn't a coward.”
Before Julian could answer, the heavy double doors at the front of the ballroom swung wide open once more.
A man walked into the room.
He was in his late fifties, tall, with broad shoulders, crisp silver hair, and an impeccably tailored charcoal overcoat that had never seen an off-the-rack department store. His face was carved out of granite, his gray eyes burning with a cold, terrifying authority that immediately silenced the remaining mutterings in the hall.
May you like
Walter Sterling had arrived.
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