As I reached the front row, the bishop smiled benevolently, opening his gold-embossed prayer book. Harrison stepped forward, extending his hand to help me up the two velvet-covered steps to the altar.
I ignored his hand.
I lifted the heavy tulle veil, pushing it back over my head so nothing obstructed my face. The bishop blinked in surprise. I stepped past Harrison, completely ignoring his whispered, “Eleanor, what are you doing?”
I walked straight to the microphone stand, pulled the mic from its cradle, and turned to face the congregation.
A collective gasp, soft but distinct, rippled through the ballroom. The string quartet, unsure of what was happening, sputtered to a halt. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, and pregnant with confusion.
I tapped the microphone. A sharp thump-thump echoed through the massive room.
“Before I say ‘I do,'” I began, my voice amplified, ringing crystal clear against the frescoed ceiling, “there is something everyone here deserves to know.”
Harrison stopped mid-step, his hand still suspended in the air. The charming smile melted off his face, replaced by a look of sheer panic. Margaret Sterling’s handkerchief dropped to her lap.
“Eleanor,” Harrison warned. His voice was a harsh hiss, loud enough for the front rows to hear clearly. “Put the microphone down. Now.”
I didn’t even glance at him.
Every single guest was staring at me. The senators, the investors, the bankers, the lawyers, the charity board members. Margaret had invited them all to witness her triumph, to watch her son acquire a beautiful, docile accessory who would smile for the cameras and never cause trouble.
Perfect. I wanted them all to hear this.
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