Chapter Six

We rushed out of the room, Lowri a flurry of white silk and tulle, and me, her maid of honor, a mess of wrinkled dress and simmering panic.

“Wait, Lowri, give me two minutes,” I said, pulling her to a stop just outside the room. “Seriously. I need to look slightly less like I was mugged by a janitor.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Two minutes, Story! That’s it! The music is starting!”

I didn't argue. I sprinted back into the room, tossing my ruined cocktail dress onto the floor. I grabbed my emergency dress: a fuchsia pink mermaid gown that I’d bought on clearance but saved for this exact moment. It was tight, flattering, and blessedly wrinkle-free.

I wrestled into the gown, cursing the complicated zipper, before darting into the bathroom. I didn't even bother with the bath; I cranked the shower to freezing cold, stepped in, and washed the last vestiges of expensive cologne and tequila sweat off my skin in less than ninety seconds. It was a fast, shocking blast of cold reality.

I was out and dripping slightly, toweling off my hair with aggressive speed. I looked at the complicated curling iron. No time. I grabbed a brush, smoothed the long dark strands back, and let them fall in simple, glossy waves down my back. Done.

I moved back to the mirror. Makeup had to be quick. A swipe of mascara, a hint of blush, and a clear gloss over my lips. A "no makeup" makeup look. It wasn't my usual chaotic glitter, but it was professional, clean, and fast. I was good to go.

Total time: one minute, fifty-two seconds.

I checked my pocket. The massive diamond was still pressing against the delicate silk of the dress. Found it in the lobby. Found it in the lobby. I clung to the lie like a life raft.

“You took three minutes, Story!” Lowri scolded, but her voice held relief. “Okay, you look… professional. Let’s go. I need to get married before I spontaneously combust.”

I grabbed my bouquet—white roses and a prayer—and rejoined Lowri, who immediately hooked her arm through her father’s. The other bridesmaids quickly gathered. We were a minute late, but Lowri, now fully composed, looked every inch the breathtaking bride.

We moved down the hallway toward the grand ballroom where the church wedding ceremony was being held. The heavy, carved doors stood closed, guarding the solemnity within.

The organ music swelled, a majestic, thunderous sound that vibrated through the floor. The doors swung open.

The room was vast, filled with hundreds of expectant faces. The aisle was lined with intricate floral arrangements, leading up to the altar where Lowri’s handsome, nervous fiancé, David, stood waiting.

The first few bridesmaids walked out. Then it was my turn.

I forced a wide, practiced smile and began my slow, terrified march down the endless aisle. I was immediately aware that something was wrong.

Lowri was supposed to be the star of today, right? The gorgeous, glowing queen in white. But for some reason, I was the one they were staring at.

The hundreds of eyes didn't seem to be politely waiting for the bride; they seemed to be fixed directly on me.

My internal monologue, already spinning from the hangover, immediately went negative: Is my dress torn? Am I bleeding? Do I look fine? Is anything wrong with me? Why were they staring at me instead of the bride?

The whispers started, low and subtle, but carried by the hushed silence of the ceremony.

The stares weren't malicious, but they were intense, a focused beam of attention I couldn't escape.

I kept my smile fixed, my gaze locked on the altar, trying to project composure while my insides were screaming. I kept my left hand, with the massive, terrifying ring, firmly hidden behind the cascading bouquet of roses.

I finally reached the front and took my place beside Lowri, who was now gliding down the aisle on her father's arm, soaking up the attention I was so desperately trying to shed.

Lowri reached the altar, David’s eyes filled with tears, and the beautiful, standard, emotional ceremony began.

The officiant, a portly man in full clerical robes, beamed at the couple. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the joining of two hearts, Lowri Arden and David Fisher, in the sacred bond of marriage. Love is not a destination; it is a journey begun with a single, courageous vow…”

My heart hammered against my ribs. I tried to focus on the pleasant platitudes, but the sheer volume of the diamond in my pocket—which I still hadn't turned over—was a constant, cold weight. If I'm married, I'm already wearing the ring. The thought returned, sick and insistent.

The officiant’s voice grew solemn: “David Fisher, do you take Lowri Arden to be your lawfully wedded wife, to trust and cherish, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, from this day forward?”

David’s voice, thick with emotion, cut through the quiet: “I do.”

“And Lowri Arden, do you take David Fisher to be your lawfully wedded husband, to trust and cherish, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, from this day forward?”

Lowri, dazzling and teary-eyed, smiled radiantly at David, then glanced affectionately at the enormous, well-dressed crowd.

“I do,” she declared, her voice clear and strong. She paused, then tilted her head conspiratorially. “But I feel compelled to clarify: I choose for richer and richer. We can skip the 'poorer' part, thank you very much.”

A ripple of delighted laughter swept through the massive ballroom. Lowri and David exchanged their elegant, simple rings.

Finally, the officiant closed his book, his voice ringing out. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. David, you may kiss your bride.”

David pulled Lowri into a tender, dramatic kiss. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, a massive, wave-like sound of celebration. Lowri and David beamed at each other, their happiness radiating across the room.

It was time for the recessional. Lowri, glowing and triumphant, linked her arm through her new husband’s, and they headed back up the aisle, soaking up the roaring applause.

I was supposed to follow, a picture of supportive cheerfulness. But as I moved, the cheers sounded muffled, and the smiling faces of the guests felt unnervingly focused.

The whispers, which had died down during the vows, started up again. They were louder now, buzzing like a swarm of agitated bees.

Look at her.

Did you see the news this morning?

No way, at a wedding?

Poor girl.

That’s her.

My blood ran cold. It wasn't the bridal party they were whispering about. It was me. They were looking at my fuchsia dress, my newly brushed hair, and the tell-tale lump in my pocket where the diamond was hidden.

What in God’s name was going on? It wasn't my wedding day. Lowri and David were the stars. Why was I suddenly the focus of this bizarre, judgmental attention?

I forced myself to keep walking, desperately trying to project professional composure. I was only a few steps behind Lowri when a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted from the back of the room.

Paparazzi.

The crowd surged slightly, and three photographers, who must have been hiding near the doors, burst through.

Their cameras were firing rapid, relentless flashes, not aimed at the beautiful bride and groom who were still walking down the aisle, but directly, ruthlessly, at me.

A sharp voice cut through the chaos and the camera clicks.

"Story Quimby, over here!!”

Just one shot for the Gazette, Mrs. King.

The flashing lights were blinding. The questions were incomprehensible. Mrs. King? Richest man alive? I stumbled, my high heel catching on the carpet. The bouquet of white roses slipped from my numb fingers, scattering across the aisle.

My mind raced, scrambling for a connection. King. King. King. I didn't know anyone named King. I didn't know the richest man alive.

My life consisted of cheap art studios and overdraft fees. The sheer absurdity, combined with the crushing realization that the diamond in my pocket was the physical proof of my catastrophic failure, was too much for my alcohol-fried brain.

The world tilted violently. The faces of the wedding guests dissolved into blurry shapes, the roar of the camera flashes turned into a high-pitched, insistent whine in my ears, and the expensive fuchsia gown suddenly felt like a straitjacket.

The last thought I had before the polished marble floor rushed up to meet me was the sound of a deep, familiar voice cutting through the mayhem.

And then, everything went black.