Chapter 3 - The Crimson Wedding and the Unmasking
The St. Patrick's Cathedral was decorated with millions of dollars worth of white orchids, crystal chandeliers, and gold leafing. Manhattan’s elite—governors, high-society billionaires, media moguls, and high-ranking syndicate bosses—packed the pews. Outside, hundreds of paparazzi snapped photos as the event of the decade unfolded.
Sloane Whitaker walked down the aisle in a breathtaking, custom-made white lace gown designed to gently accentuate her supposedly six-month pregnant bump. She looked the picture of angelic purity and elegance, floating toward the altar with a victorious, radiant smile.
Standing at the altar in a bespoke black tuxedo was Julian Mercer. He looked impossibly handsome, calm, and composed.
Standing hidden in the choir balcony above, wearing a server's uniform, was me. My heart pounded furiously as I watched the grand trap spring shut.
The Archbishop began the solemn ceremony. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
Sloane gazed up into Julian's eyes, her expression filled with fabricated love. "Julian, from the moment I met you, I knew my heart belonged to you. And now, carrying your child, our precious son, my life is complete."
Julian smiled—a cold, sharp smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You play the role so well, Sloane."
Sloane blinked, slightly confused by his tone. "What, darling?"
Instead of reading his vows, Julian reached into his inner jacket pocket. But he didn't pull out a velvet ring box. He pulled out a thick, clear plastic bag containing a heavy, flesh-colored silicone pregnancy belly, complete with trailing Velcro straps.
He dropped it heavily onto the marble altar between them with a dull thud.
The entire cathedral went dead silent. The gasp from six hundred high-society guests echoed off the vaulted cathedral ceilings.
Sloane’s face drained of every drop of color. Her eyes went wide with pure horror. "J-Julian... what is that? What are you doing?"
"I think you know what it is, Sloane," Julian said, his voice echoing clearly through the microphone hooked to his lapel, broadcasting to every speaker in the cathedral. "It's your child. Made of high-grade silicone, manufactured in Germany, and held together by Velcro."
"This is insane!" Sloane shrieked, backing away, her hands clutching her gown. "Julian, you're having a psychotic break! Someone call an ambulance! The stress is getting to him!"
Julian raised his hand, signaling the audio-visual team controlling the massive display screens set up around the cathedral for the live-streamed event.
Instantly, the wedding music cut out. The giant screens flashed to life, displaying high-definition scans of Dr. Keene's bank records, showing the five-hundred-thousand-dollar wire transfer from Sloane’s offshore account. Then, a confession video of Dr. Keene played, detailing every single forged ultrasound, followed by a crystal-clear audio recording from Aster Row’s VIP dressing room.
Sloane’s own voice blasted through the cathedral speakers:
“He won't investigate the mother of his child... He's not stupid, sweetheart. He's grieving... Once we sign the marriage certificate, Marcus will disable the fuel lines on his yacht. A tragic explosion at sea. I become the grieving widow who inherits two billion dollars.”
Panicked screaming erupted throughout the church. Guests stood up in shock, pulling out their phones to record the unbelievable scandal.
Sloane backed toward the church entrance, her mask of elegance completely shattered. "Marcus! Marcus, protect me!" she screamed toward the back of the aisle.
Marcus drew his concealed firearm, attempting to push through the crowd to secure Sloane and create an escape route. But before he could even raise his weapon, four of Julian’s loyal enforcers, led by Hale, materialized from the shadows of the cathedral columns.
Within two seconds, Hale disarmed Marcus, breaking his wrist with a sickening snap, kicking his knee backward, and pinning him face-down onto the marble floor in handcuffs.
Sloane turned to run out the heavy wooden double doors, but two federal agents in dark suits stepped into the doorway, flashing gold badges.
"Sloane Whitaker," the lead FBI agent announced loudly. "You are under arrest for attempted grand murder, wire fraud, conspiracy to commit murder, and extortion."
As the steel handcuffs clicked around Sloane’s wrists, she spun around, tears tearing through her mascara, looking wildly up at the altar. "Julian! Please! I loved you! I did it because I wanted to be with you! I was going to give you a real baby eventually! Please forgive me!"
Julian walked slowly down the altar steps, stopping inches away from her. His expression was made of absolute granite.
"You didn't just try to steal my money, Sloane," Julian whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying, suppressed fury that made her shiver. "You mocked my dead wife. You weaponized my deepest grief. You made me believe I was going to be a father, just to slaughter me in cold blood."
Julian looked at the arresting agents. "Take her out of my sight. Make sure she rots in a federal cell for the rest of her miserable life."
As the police dragged Sloane away, kicking and screaming into the flashing lights of news cameras outside, the cathedral fell into a stunned, awkward silence.
Julian stood alone in the middle of the aisle, surrounded by broken dreams and the wreckage of a massive betrayal. The elite guests whispered, unsure whether to offer condolences or run for the exits.
Slowly, Julian turned his head and looked directly up toward the choir balcony.
May you like
His gray eyes locked onto mine. The coldness in his face melted away, replaced by an expression of profound, raw gratitude.
He raised his hand and gestured for me to come down.
