Chapter 1 - The Flight from the Altar
The word transfer echoed in the chambers of my mind, drowning out the solemn Latin liturgy of the priest. My gaze dropped from the heavy gold band in Marcus’s fingers to the pale, slender hands of my grandmother’s vintage dress. She has no idea what she’s signing away.
The sanctuary of St. Catherine’s, with its towering vaulted ceilings and rows of polished mahogany pews, suddenly felt less like a holy refuge and more like an opulent trap. The air grew thick, smelling of beeswax, damp wool, and the suffocating perfume of the white lilies lining the altar.
"Bella?" the priest prompted gently, his weathered face showing a flicker of concern beneath his heavy white vestments. "Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Marcus tightened his grip on my hand. It wasn't the gesture of a reassuring lover; it was the vice-like clamp of a man securing an asset. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh of my wrist, a silent, painful command to play my part.
"Say it," he whispered through a perfectly maintained smile, his eyes tracking the photographer moving along the left transept. "Don't embarrass me, Bella. We have three news outlets waiting on the steps."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. The handsome symmetry of his face, the calculated warmth of his blue eyes, the expensive sheen of his navy suit—it all dissolved into an ugly, stark reality. Marcus didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was the final signature on a corporate acquisition, a naive schoolteacher whose grandmother’s small, historically protected plot of land on the northern shipping docks was the missing piece his family needed to secure a multi-million-dollar maritime monopoly. And he had tricked me into signing a prenuptial agreement that undoubtedly signed away the rights to my family’s heritage while shielding his dirty offshore money.
"Bella?" the priest asked again.
"No," I said.
The word was quiet, barely a breath against the storm rattling the stained glass, but inside the sudden hush of the church, it sounded like a gunshot.
Marcus’s smile froze. "Bella, stop being ridiculous. It's too late for your little dramatic episodes."
"No," I said again, louder this time, my voice steadying as a wild, primal surge of survival instinct took over. "I won't marry you."
I wrenched my hand from his grip. The sudden movement caught him off guard, and the heavy gold wedding band slipped from his fingers, clattering against the marble steps of the altar before rolling into the front pew.
Gasps rippled through the Wellingtons’ side of the church. Evelyn Wellington half-rose from her seat, her large pearls clicking against her collarbone. Charles Wellington slammed his silver-topped cane against the floorboards, his face turning an angry, mottled purple.
"Bella!" Marcus hissed, his handsome features contorting into something dark and vicious. He reached for my shoulder, his fingers clawing at the delicate lace sleeve of my grandmother’s dress. "You will sit down and finish this ceremony, or so help me God—"
I didn't let him finish. I grabbed the heavy silk skirt of my wedding dress, hoisted it above my knees, and turned on my heel.
I ran.
The ivory train trailed behind me like a broken sail as I sprinted down the long, red-carpeted center aisle. Sarah was standing up in her pew, her mouth open in a perfect circle of shock, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and sudden, fierce pride. The two teachers from Lincoln Elementary were murmuring furiously.
"Stop her!" Charles Wellington’s voice boomed from the front, echoing off the ancient stone walls. "James, Marcus, get after her! Don't let her leave this building!"
Footsteps pounded on the carpet behind me. Heavy, fast, determined. Marcus and his best man were giving chase.
I slammed my body against the heavy oak double doors at the back of the church, bursting through them into the dim, chilly vestibule. The rain outside was a solid, silver wall, hammering the grand stone steps that led down to the Manhattan street. Two security guards hired by the Wellingtons stood at the bottom of the steps, their black umbrellas shielding them from the downpour, their attention focused on the waiting paparazzi cars across the avenue.
If I went out the front, they would catch me before I hit the sidewalk.
I lunged to the right, throwing open a small, unmarked wooden door that led into the church’s private rectory and the side alleyway where the delivery trucks parked. The hallway was dark, smelling of floor wax and old incense. I flew past a startled altar boy holding a brass tray, burst through the fire exit, and crashed into the freezing October storm.
The cold rain hit me like a physical blow, instantly soaking through the heavy silk of the dress and flattening my blonde curls against my skull. The alleyway was dark, narrow, and slick with wet asphalt.
"Bella!" Marcus’s voice exploded from the fire door behind me. He was standing in the doorway, his tie loosened, his expensive leather shoes slipping on the wet metal of the stairs. "Get back here! You have no money, you have no car, and your phone is in my pocket! Where the hell do you think you're going?"
I didn't answer. I bolted down the alley toward the main street. My white satin heels were useless on the wet stone; I kicked them off, running bare-foot through the cold puddles, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I burst onto the avenue just as a sleek, midnight-black sedan pulled up to the curb. It wasn't a taxi. It was a massive, armored vehicle with blacked-out windows, its exhaust pluming into the cold air like a dragon’s breath.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate. I only knew that the footsteps behind me were getting closer, and the hands reaching for my dress were cold.
May you like
I grabbed the handle of the passenger door and pulled. To my absolute shock, it clicked open. I threw myself into the leather interior, a cloud of soaked ivory silk and rain, and slammed the door shut behind me.
"Drive!" I gasped, pressing my back against the leather seat, my lungs burning. "Please, just drive!"
