Chapter 4 - The Walk Down the Aisle
St. Jude’s Cathedral was magnificent.
Four hundred of Chicago’s most elite executives, politicians, and socialites filled the pews, their murmurs bouncing off the soaring vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows that cast jewel-toned light across the stone floor.
At the front of the altar stood Richard Cole, purple-faced and sweating through his custom tuxedo, whispering furiously into his mobile phone while his son was nowhere to be found. Beside him stood a pale, trembling minister, frantically flipping through his service book.
And then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the nave swung open.
The organist struck the opening chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, a majestic, soaring wave of sound that commanded every head in the cathedral to turn toward the entrance.
I stood at the threshold, my hand resting lightly on my father’s trembling arm.
Robert Hart looked down at me, his eyes lined with worry. "Stella, sweetheart... are you sure about this? Ethan still hasn't arrived, Richard is acting like a lunatic, and half the board members are whispering that this whole merger is falling apart."
"Don't worry, Dad," I whispered, my voice calm, clear, and utterly unshakable. "Everything is going according to plan. Just walk me down the aisle."
As we began our slow, measured descent down the long white runner, the whispers in the pews swelled into a collective murmur.
In the front row, Sophie Lane sat with a smug, triumphant smile playing across her lips, clearly convinced that Ethan’s absence meant he had finally chosen her, and that I was about to be left standing at the altar like a fool.
Step by step, I moved forward. The heavy silk of my gown rustled softly against the stone. The scent of white lilies and beeswax filled the air.
When we reached the altar, my father stepped back, kissing my cheek gently before taking his seat.
I stood alone at the foot of the dais, facing the minister.
Richard Cole lunged forward, grabbing my arm with rough, desperate familiarity. "Stella! Where is Ethan? You were with him last night at the firm! Did he say where he was going?"
Before I could answer, the heavy side doors of the vestry burst open with a loud bang.
Ethan Cole strode down the side aisle, looking immaculate in a midnight-blue Tom Ford tuxedo, though his tie was slightly askew and his face was pale with adrenaline. He had clearly just sprinted from his car.
"I'm here," Ethan panted, stepping up onto the altar and flashing me a quick, practiced, patronizing smile. "Sorry for the delay, darling. Security system locked me out of the sub-basement files last night. Corporate crises wait for no man."
He leaned in to kiss my cheek, whispering under his breath: "See? I told you. You were never going to walk away."
I didn't turn my cheek. I didn't shrink away. I stood perfectly still, letting his lips brush my skin, and then looked him dead in the eye.
"You're right, Ethan," I said clearly enough for the front row to hear. "I didn't walk away. Not yet."
The minister cleared his throat nervously, adjusting his glasses and opening the leather-bound liturgy. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."
The service proceeded with agonizing slowness. Ethan stood beside me, radiating a quiet, arrogant confidence. He answered the vows with practiced smoothness, his mind already three steps ahead, calculating the moment the priest would pronounce us man and wife so he could legally seize the South Loop deeds from my father's corporate portfolio.
"Do you, Ethan Cole, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife..."
"I do," Ethan said clearly, sliding a heavy platinum band encrusted with diamonds onto my finger.
The congregation held its breath. The moment of truth had arrived.
The minister turned his gaze toward me, his brow furrowing slightly as he consulted the service card in his hand—the very card Sophie had illegally reprinted the night before.
"And do you, Sophie Lane..." the minister began, reading directly from the altered text.
A sharp gasp echoed through the front pews. Sophie Lane sat up straighter, her eyes wide with triumphant disbelief. Richard Cole stiffened, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson.
The minister stopped dead, blinking at the paper in confusion. "Wait... forgive me. The text here says... Sophie Lane?"
A chaotic wave of murmurs erupted across the cathedral. Flashbulbs from the embedded media crews began to pop like rapid-fire lightning.
Ethan didn't look panicked. He smiled—a cold, amused, indulgent smirk—and leaned down to whisper in my ear again.
"See? I told you she couldn't help herself. Just play along, Stella. Sign the papers at the reception, and I'll make sure Sophie is out of our hair by Tuesday."
I slowly withdrew my hand from his grip.
May you like
I turned away from the altar, lifted the microphone off the minister's stand, and let my voice ring out across the soaring acoustics of the cathedral, clear and absolute as a bell.
"No, Father," I said into the mic, my eyes locked on Ethan’s suddenly draining face. "My name is not Sophie Lane."
