Chapter 3

For those three days, I wasted almost no time on “waiting.”

During the day, I made sure to appear in the hotel’s public areas as a guest—coffee in hand, flipping through notes, giving staff a polite nod—until everyone got used to the name “Adrian Cross” simply being here.

No one remembers a quiet, courteous guest. But they accept him. They assume he belongs.

At night, I ran through the next day’s sequence in my head like I was checking a route: from my suite to the chapel, from the back corridors to the seating area, from the aisle to the vows. No turn was allowed to go wrong.

And I wasn’t relying on myself alone.

My contact updated me every day in the simplest, most practical way: which hallway had been temporarily blocked, which door’s key had been changed, how far the press barrier had been moved, where Victor’s added security would enter, whether shift times had changed.

On the morning of the third day, the hotel corridors felt like someone had pressed fast-forward.

Makeup artists, photographers, florists, security, media staff—everyone moved back and forth. Carts rolled over the carpet with a dull rumble. Suits, bouquets, champagne, seating cards—everything was in final confirmation. Over radios, people kept repeating, “Check it again.” On phone calls, voices stayed low, apologizing, promising the venue would be ready in minutes.

I put on my suit, tied my tie, and wore my guest pass on my chest like any ordinary VIP.

I didn’t take a front-row seat. I didn’t hover near the backstage doors. I waited where I wouldn’t draw attention—rear section, off to the side, close to the aisle, but not where cameras usually lingered.

When it was close to the ceremony time, I followed the flow of guests from the hotel toward the chapel.

The flower arch on the lawn had already been secured. White ribbons trembled lightly in the wind. Staff stood along both sides to guide people. The press area was fenced off, cameras set on tripods, lights adjusted to make the couple look just a little brighter. Someone leaned toward a live camera and said, in an excited whisper, “It’s starting.”

The chapel doors opened slowly. Organ music spilled out first—smooth, measured, like a wave. I stepped inside. The air carried the scent of flowers and polished wood. Rows of seats were perfectly aligned. A pale runner stretched down the center aisle toward the altar and the vows area. Light filtered through stained glass and broke across the floor in blocks of color.

Guests took their seats. Staff signaled everyone to stand. The organ rose a little louder. The groom waited near the vows area. Victor wore a dark suit, posture straight, exactly the image he’d sold the world for years: reliable, steady, worthy of trust. The bridesmaids and groomsmen stood on both sides, smiling with the uniform ease of rehearsed timing.

When Elena entered through the side door, every camera and every gaze moved with her. Her dress fit perfectly. The veil was light. She walked at a controlled pace, as if she owned the rhythm of the room. Her expression was measured—eyes slightly red, a restrained smile—telling everyone without words that she had finally stepped out of the past.

I sat in the back row, watching two people who felt familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I had seen them countless times in dreams. Now I was seeing them for real.

I glanced down at the wedding program in my hand, my fingers tracing the edge of the paper. The schedule was printed in neat lines: entrance, remarks, interview, vows, rings… I read every item clearly, because I knew exactly where I would cut in.

Before the official ceremony began, the reporters were already doing their segment. A host stood in the designated area, tone warm and inviting, camera angled toward the side of the vows space—packaging the wedding into a story meant to be replayed.

The first question went to Elena.

“Ms. Hart, what happened eight years ago was a huge blow. Many people thought you’d never walk into a wedding again. How did you get through it?”

Elena lifted a hand and lightly pressed the corner of her eye, as if holding back tears. She faced the camera. Her voice was soft, but clear enough to carry.

“I really struggled. There was a time I barely spoke to anyone. Later… Victor stayed with me. He didn’t force me to forget, and he didn’t push me forward. He was just there. Eight years is a long time, but I finally made it through.”

Someone in the seats sighed. Others nodded, moved by her carefully framed “strength.”

Victor stood beside her, head slightly lowered in a humility that looked practiced. He reached out and gently took her fingertips. The camera caught it instantly, like it had been waiting for that exact image.

The reporter turned to Victor. “Mr. Kane, if you could say one thing to Lucian Vale in heaven, what would it be?”

Victor’s expression shifted without effort. His eyes took on weight. His voice lowered.

“Lucian was one of the most important friends I ever had. We went through a lot together. I believe he would want Elena to be happy. If he could see today, he would bless us, and he would be glad she has her life again.”

It came out smoothly—too smoothly, as if memorized. The room answered with another wave of quiet sighs. A few people dabbed at their eyes. The reporter nodded, satisfied, as if they’d landed the perfect emotional beat.

Elena followed, lifting her gaze toward the stained glass high above, speaking as if to someone invisible.

“Lucian mattered to me. No matter what happened, I’ll remember him. I won’t use a wedding to erase the past. I just… want to keep living. I believe he would understand. I believe he would want this for me.”

Her tone was gentle. She wrapped everything in “no choice” and “moving on,” turning what she had done eight years ago into fate, and turning this wedding into healing.

And the most effective part was this: she made it easy for everyone watching to applaud her story, because it sounded like the ending people wanted.

I listened, turning the corner of the program between my fingers. Paper rasped softly against my skin, almost inaudible.

I didn’t look up. I didn’t change expression. But I did almost laugh.

They left me in the ruins, sent my name into the news, and now they stood here talking about “understanding” and “blessing.”

If no one interrupted, these lines would be tomorrow’s headlines—footnotes to their perfect new life.

When the interview ended, the reporters stepped back into their zone. The cameras stayed on.

The priest walked forward and opened the book of vows, his voice carrying through the chapel, solemn and steady. He spoke a few standard lines about marriage, commitment, and witnesses, then asked the guests to settle.

The room quieted until you could almost hear breathing. The organ held a long note, as if waiting. Every gaze centered on the vows space. Victor and Elena stood together, fingers interlaced, picture-perfect.

The priest raised his head and swept his eyes over the seats. His tone turned formal.

“Before we begin the vows, I must ask—does anyone object to this marriage?”

The last word hadn’t even fully landed before a few people were already preparing polite smiles. Everyone knew it was usually a formality. No one stood up at a wedding like this, not under cameras, not in front of families and press.

I set the program lightly on my knees and stood.

The chair legs made a faint scrape against the carpet—small, but enough for nearby heads to turn. I stepped into the aisle and took my first step toward the vows space. My pace wasn’t fast. It didn’t need to be. I walked like I was heading toward a place that had always been mine.

The priest froze, clearly not expecting a real response. Before he could speak, I lifted my head. My voice wasn’t loud, but it pressed down on every whisper in the room.

“I object.”

The chapel went still, like someone had hit pause.

The first row turned, then the next, then the next—eyes rolling back in a wave until every face was looking at me. Cameras swung around, lenses locking on. Lights adjusted slightly, catching what the press knew instantly was the moment of the day.

I took one more step forward and looked toward the vows space.

Elena’s face tightened, as if she hadn’t understood at first.

Her gaze found me down the aisle. Her breath stopped for a beat. Then her pupils contracted. Her fingers whitened around the bouquet, and the flowers trembled slightly in her grip.

Victor’s expression still tried to hold steady, but his eyes had already changed—like a man forcing himself to confirm something impossible.

Elena’s throat moved, as if she wanted to ask who I was, but what came out was a name so soft it was almost soundless—shaking, yet unmistakable.

“Lucian?”