Chapter 7 - The White Dress
Saturday morning arrived with a blinding, crisp autumn sunshine that illuminated the grand spires of the Cathedral of the Holy Name.
Michigan Avenue was blocked off by city police barricades. Hundreds of spectators, news crews, corporate executives, and high-society elites pressed against the velvet ropes outside the cathedral doors. Television news helicopters hovered overhead, broadcasting live feeds across the nation under headlines reading: THE BILLIONAIRE'S ROYAL WEDDING: CASTELLAN BRIDE TO WALK THE AISLE.
Inside the bride's private holding room in the cathedral rectory, Victoria Lane stood before a three-way gilded mirror, staring at her reflection with absolute satisfaction.
She wore a custom hundred-thousand-dollar gown of French lace and silk satin, embellished with thousands of micro-pearls. A twenty-foot silk veil cascaded from a antique diamond tiara resting in her perfectly styled blonde hair. On her cheekbone, the subtle faint mark from two years ago had long since vanished beneath expensive cosmetic treatments.
Her father, Arthur Lane, stepped into the room wearing a tailored tuxedo, holding a glass of vintage champagne.
"The board proxy votes are locked, Victoria," Arthur whispered, leaning in close. "The moment the Archbishop pronounces you husband and wife, our legal team files the unified trust management documents. By Monday morning, we control Castellan Global."
Victoria smiled at her reflection, adjusting her long white lace gloves. "Where is Daniel? Is he in the holding room?"
"His limousine arrived ten minutes ago," Arthur said. "Marcus said he’s waiting in the vestry with his best man. He hasn't spoken to anyone all morning."
"Good," Victoria said smoothly, picking up her bouquet of white orchids. "He’s nervous. Billionaires are always nervous when they hand over the keys to their kingdom."
At precisely 4:00 PM, the grand pipe organs of the cathedral swelled into the opening chords of the procession march.
The massive oak doors at the back of the nave swung wide open.
Six hundred guests stood up in unison, turning their heads toward the aisle. Flashbulbs exploded like a thousand tiny stars. News cameras zoomed in from the balcony balconies.
Victoria took her father's arm and began her slow, majestic walk down the hundred-foot red carpet toward the altar. Her smile was radiant, her posture regal—the perfect image of a woman arriving at the apex of wealth and prestige.
At the end of the aisle stood the altar.
The Archbishop stood waiting in his ceremonial vestments. Beside him stood the best man.
But the groom’s spot was empty.
Victoria’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second as she reached the third row of pews. She glanced left, then right. Daniel was not standing at the altar.
Then, from the side door of the choir loft behind the altar, a figure stepped out into the light.
It was Daniel.
He wore a dark charcoal suit, but he was not wearing a wedding boutonnière. His face was set in a mask of absolute, terrifying coldness.
He walked down the altar steps until he stood in the center of the transept, twenty feet from Victoria and her father.
"Daniel?" Victoria murmured, keeping her voice low, her smile tightening nervously as she noticed the news cameras tracking every movement. "Daniel, what are you doing? Your place is at the altar..."
Daniel did not answer her.
Instead, he turned his head toward the heavy side doors of the transept—doors that led directly out to the private garden courtyard.
May you like
"Bring her in," Daniel commanded into the silence of the cathedral.
The high side doors creaked open.
