The first thing Clara Higgins heard when she reached the altar was not the priest asking her to repeat her vows.

October eleventh—the day before the double wedding.

New York City was buzzing with nervous energy. The New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue was draped in white silk and gold ribbon for Tristan and Vanessa’s wedding. Delivery trucks loaded with imported orchids were lined up for blocks. The press had set up massive camera risers across from the library steps, expecting the high-society event of the decade.

However, just three blocks away, something extraordinary was happening.

At 3:00 PM, four massive C-17 military transport planes landed at JFK Airport under special diplomatic clearance. Out rolled a fleet of armored, midnight-black Range Rovers bearing the sovereign flags of Claremont-Bavaria. One hundred members of the Grand Ducal Royal Guard, dressed in traditional navy-and-gold parade uniforms, disembarked and formed an honor escort.

The NYPD announced a complete shutdown of Fifth Avenue from 40th Street to 55th Street, citing "unprecedented diplomatic and royal security protocols."

Tristan’s wedding planner burst into the Public Library where Beatrice Carmichael and Vanessa were inspecting the seating arrangements.

"Mrs. Carmichael! Miss Rutherford! We have a major problem!" the planner screamed, clutching an iPad.

"What now?!" Beatrice snapped.

"The Duke of Claremont has just rented out St. Patrick’s Cathedral!" the planner gasped. "It’s right up Fifth Avenue! They've secured exclusive parade rights from the city! The police are blocking off all access roads to the library starting at 8:00 AM tomorrow!"

Vanessa’s face turned bright red. "They can't do that! We paid millions for this date!"

"They didn't just pay millions, Miss Rutherford," the planner whimpered. "The Royal House of Claremont donated fifty million dollars to the New York Historical Society and the City Restoration Fund this morning. The Mayor himself is attending their wedding as an official state guest!"

Beatrice collapsed into a wooden pew, her hand clutching her pearls. "No... no, this can't be happening..."

That night, in the quiet luxury of the Carlyle penthouse, Sebastian walked into Clara’s dressing room. She was sitting in front of a vanity mirror, looking at her reflection.

He came up behind her, resting his hands gently on her shoulders. "Are you afraid?" he asked softy.

Clara looked at his reflection in the mirror, then placed her hand over his. "Three years ago, I ran down Fifth Avenue in the pouring rain, soaking wet, with five hundred people laughing at my back. Tomorrow, I walk down that same street as your wife."