Chapter 3 - THE VOICE FROM THE SPEAKERS THAT FROZE THE ALTAR“I’m telling you, Beatrice, once we squeeze the older one out of the shares, Crestwell Holdings will be entirely in our control. Arthur plays the game better than anyone I’ve ever met.”
The voice booming through the cathedral's vaulted ceiling was unmistakable.
It belonged to Richard Miller—my father.
The church went dead silent. You could hear the hum of the air conditioning units and the distant traffic outside.
Beatrice Miller shot out of her pew as if she’d been struck by lightning. “Turn that off!” she shrieked, her voice cracking with sudden, unmitigated horror. “Turn that off right now! It’s deepfakes! It’s electronic tampering!”
But Greg, paralyzed by shock, stood frozen with his hands hovering over the keyboard, unable to stop the playback.
The audio continued, transitioning into a crisp, high-definition video file that automatically popped up on the giant screen behind the altar.
It showed a sleek, dimly lit private dining room in a high-end downtown restaurant. Date stamp: Eighteen months ago—long before Arthur had even ended his engagement to me.
On the screen, Arthur Vance sat across from a woman who was definitely not me.
She had dark, exotic features, sharp almond eyes, and an air of absolute financial authority. She was sliding a thick manila folder across the mahogany table toward Arthur.
“Are you sure her father will buy it?” the mystery woman asked on the video. Her voice was cool, cultured, and dripping with calculated ambition.
Arthur laughed—a cold, calculating sound that made the real-life Arthur standing at the altar look like a cornered animal.
“Richard Miller is desperate to expand Crestwell into the international market,” Arthur said on screen, leaning back and sipping a vintage scotch. “And Eleanor is too busy playing the dutiful, loving fiancée to notice that I’m systematically bleeding her out of her inheritance. Once I marry into the family, we merge our assets, and your holding company takes the controlling stake. Just like we planned, Elena.”
The name dropped like a tactical bomb inside the church.
Elena.
At the altar, Sienna stared at Arthur, her jaw slack, her bridal veil slipping back to reveal eyes wide with sheer terror. “Elena? Arthur... who the hell is Elena? Why did you call her that? And why does the marriage certificate in that box say you’re already married?”
Arthur grabbed Sienna’s arm, his fingers digging in so hard she winced. “Sienna, look at me! Don't listen to a single second of this! It’s an AI-generated smear campaign! Eleanor is mentally unstable—she tried to hurt herself after the accident, you know how fragile she is—”
“Don't you dare talk about my mental health when you’re standing there wearing a wedding ring you never legally took off!”
The sharp, clear voice echoed from the heavy oak doors at the back of the church.
Every head in the congregation whipped around.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, bathed in the sharp noon sunlight, was me.
I wasn't hiding in my apartment anymore. I wore a tailored, midnight-blue velvet pantsuit, dark sunglasses, and an expression of absolute, unyielding ice. Behind me stood two uniformed police officers and a senior partner from one of the city's most ruthless corporate law firms.
