Chapter 3 - The Question at the Altar
The backyard was a picture of refined elegance. White folding chairs lined the manicured lawn, draped with satin ribbons. Sunlight streamed through the canopy of ancient oak trees, casting soft golden patterns across the eighty guests who had gathered to watch me start my "second chapter."
My closest friends, my former in-laws, my colleagues—they were all smiling, waiting for the moment of celebration.
I walked down the aisle first, taking my place beside the wooden arch. My best man, David, gave me a reassuring slap on the shoulder.
"You good, man?" David whispered, noticing the pale rigidity of my face. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," I said evenly. "Just waiting."
Nora walked down the aisle as the flower girl. Her hands were steady now, though her eyes remained fixed on me. She took her spot on the bride's side as instructed, but she stayed close to the edge of the platform, near me.
Then, the music shifted. The violins swelled into Canon in D.
Isabelle appeared at the top of the stone steps leading down from the house. She looked breathtaking. Her lace gown clung gracefully to her frame, her veil cascading behind her like sea foam. She carried a bouquet of white peonies, her face illuminated by a radiant, joyful smile that I once would have given my life to preserve.
She walked down the aisle with slow, deliberate grace, looking right into my eyes. To anyone watching, she was the picture of an adoring bride. To me, she was a stranger wearing a mask.
She reached the arch. Her father handed her hand to mine. Her skin was warm, her touch soft.
"You look amazed," she whispered under her breath, giving me a dazzling, conspiratorial smile.
"I am," I replied, my voice chillingly calm. "I really am."
The officiant, an elderly judge and family friend named Thomas, stepped forward and cleared his throat. He opened his leather-bound liturgy book.
"Dearly beloved," Thomas began, his deep voice carrying across the quiet yard, "we are gathered here today in the presence of family and friends to join Marcus Hale and Isabelle Vance in holy matrimony..."
The ceremony proceeded according to plan. The readings were read. The music faded into the background. Isabelle stood opposite me, her eyes shining with well-rehearsed emotion as Thomas reached the central vows.
"Do you, Isabelle, take Marcus to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?"
"I do," Isabelle said smoothly, her voice ringing clear and melodious across the lawn. A collective sigh of affection echoed from the front rows.
Thomas turned to me. "And do you, Marcus, take Isabelle to be your lawfully wedded wife..."
"Before I answer that," I interrupted, my voice flat and completely devoid of emotion.
The silence that followed was instantaneous and absolute.
The officiant blinked, startled, pausing mid-sentence. A few guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Isabelle’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before reforming into a puzzled, gentle expression.
"Marcus?" Isabelle murmured, stepping slightly closer and laughing nervously. "What are you doing, honey?"
I didn't reach for her hand. Instead, I reached inside the breast pocket of my tailored tuxedo jacket and pulled out a single sheet of paper—the printed email I had removed from the blue folder.
"I just have one question for you, Isabelle," I said. My voice wasn't raised, but in the dead calm of the yard, it hit like a thunderclap.
Isabelle’s eyes flicked to the paper in my hand. The color instantly drained from her lips.
May you like
"Marcus, please, whatever this is, can we do it after—"
"Who is Richard Vance," I asked, reading the text directly, "and why did you tell him three days ago that you were going to send my eight-year-old daughter to a Swiss boarding school just so you could liquidate her dead mother’s trust fund?"
