“Then stay right here. And whatever happens in the next ten minutes, do not apologize to anyone.”
I turned away from them, stepping out from behind the shadow of the marble pillar. I didn’t wait for Sylvia the wedding coordinator to cue the music. I didn’t wait for the bridesmaids to line up.
I simply stepped into the light at the back of the center aisle.
The string quartet, noticing my sudden appearance, hastily stopped their tuning and launched into the opening notes of Pachelbel’s Canon. The murmuring crowd fell into a hushed, reverent silence. Two hundred heads turned to watch the bride make her grand entrance.
They expected a blushing, tearful girl walking toward her salvation.
They were about to get a very different kind of show.
The walk down the aisle felt agonizingly slow, yet my mind was racing with terrifying clarity. With every step on the thick white runner, my heels sinking slightly into the fabric, I mentally cataloged the faces in the pews.
There was Senator Hastings, who had just approved a controversial zoning permit for a new Sterling hotel. There was Evelyn Croft, the ruthless editor of a high-society magazine, poised to feature this wedding on her next cover. And there, sitting dead center in the front row, was Margaret Sterling. She was dabbing the corners of her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief, playing the role of the overcome mother to absolute perfection.
Harrison stood at the end of the aisle, right next to the towering arrangement of white roses and the microphone stand. He looked triumphant. He thought he had won. He thought I had backed down, properly subdued and put in my place.
She’ll sign, I remembered the voice on the audio file saying. She wants the fairy tale.
My palms were slick with sweat, but my hands were steady as I gripped my bouquet. I didn’t look at Harrison. My eyes were fixed on the microphone.
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