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“Before I answer, there’s something everyone here needs to hear,” my voice echoed with absolute, crystalline precision through the cathedral’s state-of-the-art wireless microphone array.
Cynthia instantly gripped her chest in visible shock, her pearls rattling against her designer silk dress as a collective, sharp gasp rippled through the first five rows of the congregation. Dylan’s smooth, triumphant smile completely disintegrated, his jaw flexing as he took a predatory step forward, his hand tightening around mine in a desperate, hushed warning.
“Clara, what the hell are you doing?” Dylan whispered, his eyes darting frantically toward the high-definition media cameras recording the event. “Stop this theatrical display. The investors are watching. Let’s just cross the finish line.”
I didn’t flinch. I calmly pulled my hand from his grip, my ivory silk gown catching the light as I turned my back to the altar and faced the 150 high-society guests sitting in absolute, stunned silence.
“One hour ago, Dylan stood in the corridor and told his mother that he didn’t give a damn about me—that he only wanted my family’s money,” I announced, my voice remaining deadpan, steady, and entirely devoid of the tears he had spent three years calculating. “Cynthia assured him that once the certificates were formalized, what’s mine becomes theirs, because I am ‘easy to control.’”