Chapter 16 - The Wedding of the CenturyOne week later.
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan was blinding under thousands of crystal chandelier lights. Hundreds of elite guests—politicians, billionaires, and high-society socialites—sipped vintage champagne, applauding as the organ music swelled through the vaulted ceilings.
Standing at the altar in a bespoke black tuxedo, I stared blankly ahead.
Beside me stood Brielle Cartwright, draped in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown, wearing a triumphant, predatory smile that made my stomach churn. In the front row sat Viktor Vance, flanked by two armed bodyguards, watching us like a hawk watching a dying rabbit.
The priest cleared his throat, opening his Bible. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."
My mind raced. Every second that ticked by brought me closer to the trap. I knew that the moment I said "I do," Viktor Vance's syndicate would legally seize controlling shares of my entire estate, locking Mara and the boys away from me forever.
I had played my part. I had acted the dutiful heir.
Now, it was time to spring the trap.
"Do you, Julian Whitaker, take this woman—"
"I don't," I interrupted clearly, my voice ringing out across the silent, stunned cathedral of guests.
Brielle’s smile vanished instantly. In the front row, Viktor Vance shot out of his seat, his eyes widening in sudden, violent realization.
"Julian, what is the meaning of this?!" Brielle shrieked, dropping her bouquet.
I turned around to face the back of the ballroom.
The heavy mahogany doors flew open with a deafening crash. But it wasn't police officers who walked in.
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It was a dozen federal agents from the Department of Justice, flanked by international Interpol operatives in full tactical gear, led by a man holding a thick stack of federal warrants.
And right behind them, walking with absolute, unyielding grace in a stunning emerald dress, was Mara.
