Chapter 3

The wedding was only hours away, but the bridal suite felt like a waiting room for a disaster.

When Mason stepped in, he was a picture of effortless charm. He leaned in, pressing a light, practiced kiss to my hair. "You look beautiful, Claire. Forget about the rehearsal. It’s over now. Let’s fly to the Maldives tonight. I promise, this time, I’ll stay by your side."

He spoke with the casual ease of a man who believed that a compliment was a valid currency to settle any debt. He truly believed that as long as he gave me a few sweet words, I would remain the stagnant, waiting harbor he had always known.

His phone buzzed—sharp and insistent.

Without breaking eye contact, his thumb swiped the screen—*"I’m at the bridge, Mason. I can’t do this anymore. You don’t have to worry about me after today."

His expression didn't show guilt; it showed the thrill of a man who felt essential.

"I have to go," he said, his tone shifting instantly from romantic to urgent. "Jenna is at the bridge. She’s in a dark place, Claire. She needs me."

I didn't move. I stood perfectly still, watching him. "Mason, we have ten minutes left. We are getting married."

Mason frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing his face as if I were a child failing to grasp a simple concept. "Don't be like that, Claire. She’s fragile. She doesn't have anyone else. Just delay the ceremony. I’ll be back. Don't force me to choose between you two. You know I love you both in my own way."

He truly believed he was being noble, balancing two women like a man managing two appointments. He turned toward the door, his pace brisk and confident, never once considering that his absence might be the final piece of evidence I needed.

I didn't cry. I didn't chase him. I simply pulled out my phone and sent one text:" Are you ready?"

The reply was instant: "I have been waiting for eight years."

The chapel was a sea of murmurs. The city’s elite whispered, eyes darting to the empty spot at the altar. Victoria, Mason’s mother, swept toward me, her silk dress rustling like a snake.

"Claire," she hissed, grabbing my wrist with a manicured hand. "Delay the ceremony! The most powerful man in the city is in the front row, and my son is missing! Do you want us to be a laughingstock?"

I looked down at her hand, then slowly peeled her fingers off my wrist, one by one.

"There’s no need to delay, Victoria," I said, my voice cutting through her panic.

"How can you say that?" she spat.

At that moment, the heavy chapel doors swung open.

Dominic Cole walked in.

He didn't walk like a guest; he walked like a predator entering his territory. He wore a bespoke tuxedo, and on his lapel, he pinned the white rose meant for the groom.

He stopped inches from me. The air between us was electric, heavy with a history we had both ignored for too long. He didn't look at the crowd; he looked only at me, his gaze dark and unreadable.

"The groom has abandoned his post," Dominic said, his voice a low, magnetic vibration. He reached out, his thumb grazing my cheekbone with a touch so bold, so deliberate, that the whole chapel gasped.

"Would you like me to escort you out of this farce?" he asked, his eyes daring me to refuse.

I placed my hand in his. His grip was solid, unyielding.

"Let them talk," I said, meeting his intense stare.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the priest announced, his voice trembling. "The wedding will proceed."

As the music surged into a triumphal chord, rapid, desperate footsteps echoed from the corridor.

The chapel doors slammed open again.