The organ was playing. Guests in expensive dresses and tailored suits filled the pews. Cameras were positioned. The minister stood at the altar. Trent waited at the front in a cream suit, smiling like a man already counting money that did not belong to him.
People were whispering about the delay.
Then the church doors opened.
First came Daniel, walking straight-backed and steady, no longer just a driver moving silently in the background.
Then came Savannah.
A hush swept the room.
The bride was there—but not as anyone expected. Her dress was wrinkled and stained. Her veil sat crooked. Her bouquet was gone. Her face was calm, almost unnervingly calm, and her eyes were locked on Trent with a coldness that made him falter for the first time all day.
He stepped toward her, forcing a smile that almost worked.
“Savannah, baby, what happened? Were you in an accident?”
She said nothing.
She walked past him, climbed the altar steps, took the microphone from the startled minister, and turned to face the crowd.
The silence that followed was total.
“My family. My friends,” she began, voice steady. “You came here today to celebrate a marriage. But nothing built on rot deserves to be called holy.”