Chapter 6 - Speak Now
The Bishop’s voice was a rhythmic, soothing drone that washed over the glittering crowd like warm oil.
"...into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."
The traditional pause followed.
It was a ceremonial formality, a theatrical beat where guests smiled politely, shifted in their pews, and waited for the vows to begin. In five hundred years of Saint Jude’s history, no one had ever answered that question.
Elian smiled down at Mara, his eyes flicking toward the Bishop, ready for the next line.
I stood up.
The rustle of my silk dress was small, but in the suffocating quiet of the cathedral, the click of my three-inch heels against the marble floor rang out like a gunshot.
"I can," I said.
My voice was not a scream. It was not a shriek of hysterical outrage. It was the calm, measured, terrifyingly clear projection of a professional addressing an emergency board meeting.
The Bishop stopped mid-breath, his prayer book freezing in his hands.
A collective, jagged gasp rippled through the eight hundred guests. Heads snapped toward the front pew. Eleanor Vale turned so fast her diamond earrings clattered against her pearls, her mouth falling open in grotesque disbelief.
Victor Vale stiffened, his eyes bulging as he glared at me from across the aisle.
"Sloane?" Helen Vance whispered in pure horror, grabbing at my empty seat. "What are you doing? Sit down!"
At the altar, Elian’s smile vanished. His face flushed a dark, violent crimson, the veins in his neck bulging against his starched wing collar.
"What is the meaning of this?" the Bishop stammered, looking wildly between me and the groom’s family. "Miss Vance... this is a sacred service. Please return to your seat immediately."
"This is not a marriage, Bishop," I said, stepping out of the pew and walking deliberately toward the center of the crimson carpet, stopping ten paces behind Elian and Mara. "This is an extortion racket disguised as a holy sacrament. And the man standing at that altar is not a groom. He is a violent felon who belongs in federal custody."
A violent uproar erupted in the nave. Guests stood up in their pews, murmuring loudly.
"Security!" Victor Vale roared, his booming voice cutting through the rising chaos as he lunged into the central aisle, his face purple with fury. "Get this deranged woman out of my church! She’s mentally unstable! Call the police!"
The two Vale security guards from the south transept drew their batons and broke into a dead sprint toward me down the side aisles.
"Stand down!" Marcus Kane’s voice thundered from the back of the cathedral.
The three plainclothes Federal Marshals threw open their jackets, exposing their gold badges and holstered Glocks.
"Federal agents! Nobody move! Stay in your seats!"
The security guards skidded to a halt, their eyes widening in sudden, panicked confusion as they saw the federal shields.
Elian took two aggressive steps down the altar stairs toward me, his hands curling into fists, his mask of aristocratic refinement completely shattering into the snarling, feral rage of a cornered predator.
"You miserable, pathetic bitch!" he snarled, completely forgetting the eight hundred society guests, the cameras, and the Bishop. "You ruined this! Mara, tell them she’s lying! Tell them right now, or by God, I will ruin your father before the sun sets!"
Mara didn't shrink back.
For the first time in six months, she didn't look at the floor. She took off her veil with both hands, turned around, and faced the congregation.
"She’s not lying," Mara said, her voice clear, amplified by the Bishop’s lapel microphone.
I pressed the red button on the aluminum transmitter in my palm.
The cathedral’s automated sound system gave a sharp, electronic chirp.
The two twenty-foot projection screens above the altar flickered once. The elegant gold *E & M* monogram vanished.
In its place, high-definition, three-story-tall photographs illuminated the dark limestone arches of the cathedral.
The first image was Mara’s back, taken eighteen hours ago in the boutique, showing the raw, bloody, crisscrossing violet lacerations from Elian’s belt in horrific, undeniable clarity.
A collective shriek of genuine horror ripped through the congregation. Several women in the front pews covered their faces. Senator Hollister, sitting three rows behind Victor, dropped his program, his jaw slack with revulsion.
"Turn it off!" Eleanor Vale shrieked, clawing at Victor’s arm. "Victor, make them turn it off! God in heaven, turn it off!"
The speakers didn't turn off.
Instead, Elian’s voice, amplified through fifty thousand watts of cathedral acoustics, filled the sacred space, echoing off every stone arch and stained-glass window:
> *"You think your daddy’s engineering firm is going to survive the winter without my signature on the subordinated debt waiver, Mara? Look at me when I'm talking to you. You are property. You are collateral. When a Vale wife forgets her place, her husband corrects her. Sleep on the floor tonight."*
The voice note ended with the unmistakable, sickening sound of a heavy leather strap striking bare skin, followed by Mara’s choked, stifled sob.
The silence that followed was total, absolute, and suffocating.
Eight hundred of the most powerful people in New York sat frozen in their seats, staring up at the screens in utter, paralyzed horror.
May you like
Elian Vale stood at the foot of the altar, bathed in the violet light of his own crimes, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and vacant as he realized the entire world had just heard him execute his own damnation.
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