Chapter 8 - The Procession
The string quartet struck up Pachelbel's Canon in D.
The three hundred guests stood in unison, turning their heads toward the stone staircase leading down from the manor terrace to the garden aisle.
Julian stood beneath a massive arch of white hydrangeas, blush roses, and eucalyptus. He looked like the picture-perfect Southern gentleman—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes misted with practiced, emotional reverence.
Beside the altar stood the minister, Reverend Campbell, holding a leather Bible. To Julian’s left stood his groomsmen, all grinning smugly. To the right stood the bridesmaids in emerald green.
Claire stood at the head of the bridesmaids, clutching a bouquet of white peonies. Her cheeks were flushed pink with excitement. She caught Julian’s eye across the altar and gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
*The wire is loaded.*
Then, the music shifted.
The brass section joined the strings, swelling into the majestic, thunderous chords of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus.
The crowd gasped.
At the top of the stone staircase, leaning on my arm, was my father.
Richard Vance wasn't in his wheelchair. He was standing on his own two feet, wearing his custom navy tuxedo, his silver walking stick in his right hand, his left hand tucked securely through my arm. He had disconnected the oxygen cannula for this walk, his jaw set in pure granite.
Julian’s eyes widened. A flash of genuine shock broke through his polished mask. He hadn't expected Richard to walk. He had counted on a dying, wheezing old man being wheeled down the path, looking helpless and half-dead for the photographers.
Instead, Richard Vance looked like an emperor escorting his successor.
I took a slow breath beneath my veil. My dress swept across the white runner, the heavy lace whispering against the stone. With every step, I felt the eyes of our world on me: the bankers Julian owed, the judges who had signed my grandfather’s charters, the socialites who lived for scandal.
Julian swallowed visibly as we reached the bottom of the stairs. He stepped forward, reaching out both hands to receive me.
"Richard," Julian said, his voice choking with faux emotion. "Sir, it’s an honor. I promise to take care of her for the rest of my life."
My father stopped. He didn't hand my arm over.
He looked Julian up and down, his cold blue eyes piercing straight through the younger man's expensive facade.
"You’ll take care of her, son?" Richard asked, his voice carrying clearly to the first four rows of guests.
"With everything I have, sir," Julian pledged, placing a hand over his heart.
Richard gave a slow, terrifying smile. "Make sure you remember you said that."
He stepped back and took his seat in the front row beside Arthur Sterling, who was resting his hands on the heavy leather binder.
I stepped up onto the altar.
Julian reached out, taking both of my gloved hands in his. His palms were sweating. Through the thin lace of my gloves, I could feel the nervous tremor in his fingers.
"You look breathtaking," he whispered, gazing into my eyes through the sheer tulle of my veil. "I’ve never loved you more than I do right now."
"I know," I whispered back, my voice completely steady. "It’s a very profitable day for you, Julian."
His brow furrowed slightly. The smile on his lips stiffened. "What?"
"Dearly beloved," Reverend Campbell’s booming voice echoed across the garden, amplified by the state-of-the-art Bose sound system hanging from the canopy trusses. "We are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony."
May you like
The ceremony had begun.
***
