The standing ovation never told the full story.
Inside St. Jude’s Cathedral, I gripped a bouquet of roses so tightly the thorns pierced my palms. The silence of four hundred spectators pressed down like lead. My Vera Wang gown, a gift that cost more than my father’s annual salary, weighed me down as whispers of my “unsuitable” lineage echoed across the vaulted ceiling. Ryan Vance, my fiancé—or so I thought—was nowhere to be seen. A “work emergency,” he texted an hour ago. And I waited. Foolishly.
Then I saw him. Not Ryan. Julian Thorne. Billionaire recluse. CEO. Stranger. Or so I’d assumed. Three years ago, I’d pulled him from a burning car, patched his wounds, and saved his life. The scar on his hand? Mine. And now, his gaze pinned me to the marble altar, sharp, calculating, intense.
The oak doors groaned open again, but it wasn’t him entering the aisle. It was Mrs. Vance. Wine in hand, microphone in the other, she strode forward like a predator claiming her prey. She announced to the entire congregation that there would be no wedding—at least, not with me. I was a “placeholder,” a distraction, someone to fill the bed while Ryan climbed the social ladder. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a cascade of red wine across my dress, turning silk into a humiliation-stained horror.
Laughter erupted. I sank to my knees. But then came the sound: polished leather striking marble. Click. Click. Click. Julian.
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