Chapter 5 - Saturday Morning
The morning of the wedding dawned with a brilliant, crisp autumn sunlight that made a mockery of the dreary rain from our first day in college. The sky was an impossible shade of cobalt blue, and the historic brick streets of downtown Boston were bathed in golden light.
At 7:00 AM, my phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.
I slipped out of bed without waking Ryan, padding quietly across the hardwood floor into the hallway. I checked the screen.
Transfer confirmed. Funds cleared.
I opened my purse, pulled out the cashier’s check from Eleanor, and slid it into a secure zipped compartment alongside a separate folder of documents I had spent the previous evening organizing with the help of an old college friend who worked at a corporate investigative firm in downtown Boston.
By 8:30 AM, my mother and makeup artist arrived at the townhouse, and the bridal suite chaos officially commenced.
Ryan had already left for the historic Trinity Chapel with his best man, adhering to the traditional superstition that the groom shouldn't see the bride in her dress before the ceremony. Before he left, he had kissed my forehead gently at the doorway, whispering, “See you at the altar, Clara.”
“See you at the altar,” I replied, my voice steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
As the hours ticked away toward 2:00 PM—the scheduled ceremony time—the tension in the bridal holding room at the back of the chapel grew thick enough to cut with a knife. My mother was nervously adjusting my veil for the fifth time, her hands shaking slightly.
“Clara, are you sure about this?” she whispered, her eyes wide with anxiety. “If this goes wrong, Eleanor will destroy us. She has lawyers, politicians, judges—”
“Mom,” I interrupted, taking her hands and smiling gently. “Eleanor thinks she bought my silence for ten thousand dollars. She thinks she’s the only one playing chess. But she forgot one very important rule of wealth in this city: money talks, but secrets scream louder.”
At 1:45 PM, a sharp knock sounded on the heavy oak door of the bridal room.
Monique, Eleanor’s immaculate French wedding planner, slipped into the room. Her face was a mask of cold professionalism, though I could see a triumphant gleam in her dark eyes.
“Miss Vance—pardon, Miss Miller,” Monique corrected herself with a chilling little smirk. “Mrs. Vance sent me to check on your progress. The guests are all seated in the nave. The groom is at the altar. It is almost time.”
She looked me up and down in my traditional white silk gown, her eyes lingering with a mixture of pity and malice. She clearly expected me to look panicked, tearful, or hesitant—the classic signs of a bride about to bolt.
Instead, I turned around from the vanity mirror, smiled radiantly, and picked up my bouquet of white roses and eucalyptus leaves.
“Tell Eleanor,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady across the room, “that the bride is ready. And she didn't miss her cue.”
Monique blinked, momentarily thrown off by my composure, before recovering her icy demeanor. “Very well. Don't keep the groom waiting.”
She turned on her heel and swept out of the room.
May you like
My mother let out a long, shaky breath and crossed herself. “God help us all.”
“No, Mom,” I said, walking toward the heavy inner doors that led directly to the back of the main aisle. “God has nothing to do with this. This is strictly business.”
