Chapter 6 - The Key West Sun
The sun over Little Torch Key was blindingly bright on Tuesday afternoon.
The ocean stretched out toward the horizon like a vast sheet of sapphire glass, gently lapping against the white sand shores of the Little Palm Estate. Tropical palm trees swayed in the warm Caribbean breeze, their fronds rustling softly over a meticulously arranged outdoor wedding setup.
White silk ribbons fluttered from the backs of twenty ghost-wood chairs arranged on the manicured lawn. A massive floral arch woven with rare white orchids and gardenias stood at the edge of the water, overlooking the turquoise sea.
Christian Prescott stood under the shade of a white canvas canopy near the grand patio, smoothing the lapels of his custom white linen tuxedo. He looked breathtakingly handsome—his golden hair perfectly styled, his smile radiant, his blue eyes bright with triumph.
Beside him, Gabriel stood holding a crystal glass of iced champagne. Gabriel’s face was pale beneath his tan, his eyes nervous as he glanced continuously toward the tree line bordering the driveway.
"Relax, Gabe," Christian chuckled, taking a champagne flute from a passing waiter and taking a light sip. "You look like you're attending a funeral."
"I'm just... stressed about the press, Christian," Gabriel lied smoothly, keeping his hands steady. "If a single photographer caught wind of this—"
"No one caught wind of anything," Christian dismissed arrogantly, waving a hand toward the perimeter wall. "The estate security is airtight. I paid fifty grand extra for a total blackout zone. No cell signals, no drones, no uninvited guests. As far as the world knows, I'm currently fasting in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains, heartbroken over poor Genevieve."
Christian laughed—a light, musical sound.
"And by next week," Christian continued, turning to look at his reflection in the glass patio door, "I'll return to Indianapolis, hold another press conference, and announce that I'm taking Genevieve home to care for her permanently. The media will crown me a living saint."
The glass doors opened, and Sabrina stepped out onto the patio.
She was stunning. Wearing a ten-thousand-dollar fitted lace gown with a deep-V neckline and a flowing three-foot train, her blonde hair styled in intricate braids adorned with small pearls. Walking beside her, holding her hand, was four-year-old Leo, wearing a miniature matching white tuxedo.
"How do I look, my love?" Sabrina beamed, stepping into Christian's arms and pressing a passionate kiss to his lips.
"You look like thirty million dollars," Christian whispered into her ear, wrapping his arms around her waist while ruffling his son's hair. "Are you ready to finally make this official, Mrs. Prescott?"
"I've been ready for four years," Sabrina said softly, resting her head against his chest. "I was so tired of hiding in Naples, Christian. I was so tired of watching that plain farm girl stand beside you on red carpets while I had to enter through the back doors."
"She won't be standing on any red carpets ever again," Christian promised, his voice dropping into a cold, dark whisper that made Gabriel's blood run cold behind them. "Her red carpet days ended on that sidewalk in Indianapolis."
At 3:55 p.m., the small string quartet positioned near the floral arch began to play a soft, classical rendition of Pachelbel's Canon in D.
The twelve invited guests—Sabrina's mother, her sister, Christian's private accountant, two close high-school friends, and a handful of trusted associates—took their seats on the white wooden chairs facing the ocean.
An elderly non-denominational minister wearing white robes took his position under the orchid arch, holding a small black leather Bible.
Christian stepped down from the stone patio onto the grass, taking his place under the arch beside the minister. He adjusted his silk bowtie, standing tall, his chest puffed out with absolute, undeniable pride. He had won. He had defeated the odds, secured his fortune, silenced his past, and was about to take everything he desired.
Sabrina took her father's arm at the edge of the stone walkway. The music swelled. She began her slow, graceful march down the aisle toward the man who had paid to destroy another woman's life to give her this moment.
She reached the third row of chairs.
May you like
Suddenly, the smooth, melodic sound of the string quartet faltered. The violinist stopped bowing mid-note, staring wide-eyed past the floral arch toward the deep blue waters of the bay.
A deep, deafening mechanical roar split the quiet tropical air.
