— “She’s dealing with the Sterlings now,” Julian said, taking Eleanor’s hand. “Both of us.”
The wedding of Julian Sterling and Eleanor Vance was billed as the event of the decade. St. James Cathedral was packed with fifteen hundred guests—a sea of high fashion, old money, and political power. Outside, the streets were blocked off; thousands of onlookers and a legion of press tried to catch a glimpse of the “Cinderella bride.”
Inside the cathedral, the air was thick with the scent of ten thousand white roses and unbearable tension. Eleanor stood at the end of the massive aisle. She held Leo’s arm. Her brother, looking healthier than he had in years (thanks to the care Julian arranged), was beaming.
— “You look like an angel, El,” Leo whispered.
Eleanor felt like anything but an angel. She wore a Vera Wang gown that cost more than she’d earned in five years. A masterpiece of silk and French lace. But under the silk, her heart was thumping like a trapped bird. They hadn’t found the contract. Arthur’s people had scoured the city, but Isabella had vanished, waiting for the perfect moment. Eleanor knew with a terrifying certainty that the moment was now.
As the choir began to sing, Eleanor took a deep breath. She wasn’t walking toward an altar; she was walking into a minefield.
— “Ready?” Leo asked.
— “No,” Eleanor whispered. “Let’s go.”
The walk felt endless. Every face she passed seemed to be analyzing and judging her. *”Do they know?”* she asked herself.
Ahead, at the altar, stood Julian. He looked devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, but his jaw was set tight. His eyes found hers, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw fear, protective rage, and something else. That raw, hungry look from the balcony.
She reached the altar. Leo kissed her cheek and took his seat. Julian took her hand. His grip was firm, almost painful.
— “She’s here,” Julian murmured under his breath. “Third row, left side, in black.”
Eleanor didn’t look. She focused on the priest, an imposing figure in gold robes.
The words drifted past her consciousness. *”Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”* It all felt surreal. A multi-million dollar performance, and she was the lead actress. Then came the moment they had been dreading.
— “If anyone here knows any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
Silence filled the massive cathedral. A second passed, then another. Eleanor almost let herself exhale.
*Click-clack. Click-clack.* The sharp sound of heels on marble.
— “I object!”
Isabella Thorne stepped out of the row. She wasn’t in black—she was in blood-red. She held a folder high in the air like a weapon. A collective gasp rippled through the church. The cameras in the press section swiveled toward her.
— “This marriage is a fraud!” Isabella’s voice shrieked, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. She marched down the center aisle. “It’s a commercial transaction designed to deceive the board. And you, Evelyn Sterling!”
Evelyn Sterling, sitting in the front row, froze, her hand tightening on her cane. Julian stepped in front of Eleanor, shielding her.
— “Security, remove this woman!”
— “Don’t you dare touch me!” Isabella snapped at the guards. She ran up the altar steps and pulled documents from the folder. “I have proof. A marriage contract dated three weeks ago.”
She began to read, her voice dripping with venom:
— “‘Clause 4a. The wife, Eleanor Vance, agrees to perform the duties of a spouse for a period of no less than twelve months in exchange for the sum of ten million dollars, payable upon divorce. Clause 4b. The husband agrees to cover all medical expenses for her brother.'”
Chaos erupted. The cathedral turned into a circus. Reporters shouted questions; guests stood on the pews. Isabella turned to Evelyn with triumph in her eyes.
— “See?”
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