Chapter 2 - THE UNFINISHED CEREMONY
The string quartet was playing Pachebel’s Canon in D.
I walked down the aisle on the arm of my father, my eyes fixed not on the altar, but on the blue leather briefcase sitting on the wooden table inside the estate's private study, visible through the open french doors of the mansion behind the altar.
Every step felt surreal. Seventy people were watching me. Wyatt stood at the end of the white runner, his hands clasped, looking like the picture of devotion.
He took the dollhouse. He lied about the box.
When my father placed my hand in Wyatt’s, Wyatt’s fingers squeezed mine tightly. A little too tightly.
"You look nervous," Wyatt whispered under his breath as the pastor began his opening remarks. "Just relax, Elena. It’s all taken care of."
"What's in the briefcase, Wyatt?" I murmured, keeping my face turned toward the pastor, my voice barely moving my lips.
Wyatt didn't flinch. His grip on my hand didn't loosen. "This isn't the place for this, Elena."
"What box did you take from Nolan's truck?" I pressed, my heart beating so fast I could hear it ringing in my ears.
The pastor paused, glancing at us with a polite smile, assuming we were exchanging sweet wedding vows prematurely. The guests chuckled softly.
Wyatt leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "If you make a scene right now, Elena, think about how it will affect Harper. She's had enough trauma, don't you think? Let's just finish the ceremony. We can talk about old work files later."
That was his mistake.
He thought I was still the broken widow who would do anything to keep the peace. He thought the last two years had made me dependent on his strength. He didn't realize that a mother’s protective instinct is infinitely stronger than grief.
"No," I said clearly.
The pastor stopped mid-sentence.
The chuckles in the audience died instantly.
"Elena?" Wyatt’s voice lost its warmth. A dark, sharp coldness flashed in his eyes—a expression I had never seen on his face before.
I pulled my hand out of his grip.
"Elena, what are you doing?" my mother gasped from the front row, standing up.
"I can't do this," I said, stepping back on the runner, gathering my heavy lace train in one hand.
"Elena, stop being hysterical," Wyatt said, his tone turning commanding as he reached for my wrist. "You're embarrassing yourself and your family. Take a breath."
"Don't touch me!" I snapped, loud enough for the entire audience to hear.
Gasps echoed through the rows of guests. My father stepped forward, looking confused and alarmed. "Elena, what's wrong?"
"Ask Wyatt what he has in his briefcase inside the house," I said, my eyes locked on Wyatt’s darkening face. "Ask him why he's had my dead husband's private records locked in his car for two years."
Wyatt didn't look flustered for more than a second. He turned to the crowd, putting on a tired, sympathetic smile. "Everyone, I'm so sorry. The stress of the wedding... Elena has been having a hard time with Nolan’s memory lately. Please, give us a moment."
He reached out to grab my arm firmly to lead me inside, but my father stepped directly between us.
"She said don't touch her, Wyatt," my father said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.
Taking advantage of the distraction, I turned and ran toward the house.
"Elena!" Wyatt yelled, his calm façade dropping completely as he shoved past the groomsmen to follow me.
May you like
I sprinted up the terrace steps, my heavy wedding dress dragging behind me, and burst into the estate’s study. The blue leather briefcase was sitting on the mahogany desk.
I grabbed a brass letter opener from the desk tray and jammed it into the lock of the briefcase just as Wyatt slammed the study door open behind me.
Related Stories
