Chapter 5

The wedding looked like a dream built out of money.

White flowers spilling over marble steps. A string quartet playing something soft and expensive. Cameras positioned like predators, waiting for the perfect shot.

The Matthews didn’t get married.

They made statements.

I stood at the edge of the hall in a gown that cost more than a house, my heartbeat calm in a way that should’ve terrified me.

Wayne waited near the altar, jaw tight, eyes scanning the room. He was handsome in the way storms were handsome—beautiful and dangerous and absolutely indifferent to who got struck.

Novia sat two rows from the front in a dress the color of fresh blood.

She smiled at me like we shared a secret.

We did.

Only she thought it was her secret.

The officiant started speaking.

Wayne’s phone buzzed in his hand; he ignored it. He was restless, on edge. Maybe he sensed something. Maybe he simply couldn’t stand a moment where he wasn’t in control.

Then the screen behind the altar lit up.

At first, people thought it was part of the program—some romantic montage. A childhood photo. A family video.

Instead, it was Wayne.

It was Novia.

It was an explicit, unmistakable recording that ripped the air out of the room.

Gasps detonated through the hall. Someone screamed. A flash went off, then another.

Wayne’s head snapped up, his face draining of color.

“Turn it off!” he roared. “Turn it OFF!”

Technicians at the side panel slammed keys, yanked cords, shouted over each other.

Nothing stopped it.

The footage looped like it had teeth.

Wayne surged toward the tech station, shoving a man hard enough to send him stumbling. “Fix it!”

Novia’s smile faltered—just for a second—before she recovered and pressed her hand to her chest as if she were the victim. “Wayne, I—”

“Shut up,” he snarled.

The video cut.

For one blessed heartbeat, the hall held its breath.

Then the screen flickered again.

Static.

A distorted feed.

And my face.

I appeared on the screen, trembling, hair messy, a blade pressed to my throat by a masked man behind me.

The hall erupted.

Wayne froze like he’d been shot.

“Clara?” His voice cracked, raw. “CLARA!”

The masked man shoved me forward so the camera could catch the fear in my eyes—fear I manufactured with professional precision.

A second masked man stepped into frame holding a device with wires and a blinking red light.

A bomb.

The first man spoke through a voice modulator. “Wayne Matthews. You want your bride alive?”

Wayne’s body shook. “Who the hell are you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” the man said. “Here’s the deal. You hurt yourself—publicly—and we let her go.”

Wayne stared at the screen like it was a window into hell.

“Don’t do it,” I cried, voice breaking on purpose. “Wayne, please—don’t—”

He flinched, like my pleading stabbed straight into whatever thin part of him still felt human.

Someone in the crowd shouted, “Call the police!”

Jarrell’s voice cut through like a gunshot. “No police.”

Sandra stood, face pale, hands clenched. “Wayne,” she whispered. “Do what they say. Do it.”

Wayne’s eyes were wild. He looked around—at the cameras, at the guests, at the family that owned him.

Then he looked back at the screen.

At me.

And something in him cracked open.

“Okay,” he rasped. “Okay—just—don’t hurt her.”

He grabbed a ceremonial knife from the altar table—some ridiculous “family tradition” blade meant to symbolize loyalty. His hands shook as he lifted it.

I shook my head violently, sobbing. “No! No, please—”

Wayne swallowed, jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jump.

Then he dragged the blade across his palm.

Blood welled instantly, bright and obscene against his tuxedo. It splattered onto the white carpet like a signature.

A collective scream rose.

Wayne gritted his teeth, pain flashing across his face. “Let her go!”

I stared at the camera, letting my eyes fill like I was watching a man sacrifice himself for me.

Then I screamed the line that would haunt him forever.

“I don’t want you like this!” I sobbed. “Live. Just live—consider it me blessing you and her!”

Wayne’s eyes widened, confusion slicing through panic. “Clara—what are you—”

I moved fast.

I twisted out of the masked man’s grip—because he let me.

I shoved him hard enough that he staggered.

My hand slammed onto the device.

The detonator.

Wayne’s voice tore through the hall. “NO—!”

The screen went white.

Then it became snow—static, violent and endless.

In the hall, people screamed and surged and trampled each other. Guards drew guns. Family members shouted. Wayne lunged forward like he could reach through the screen and pull me back.

But there was nothing to pull.

Because the feed was gone.

Because the moment was sealed.

Because to them, Clara Matthews had just died in a burst of light.

What none of them saw was the darkness behind the camera.

The hands that caught me.

The cloth pressed over my mouth.

The calm voice in my ear: “Don’t fight. You’re safe.”

My body went limp exactly as planned.

And when I opened my eyes again, it wasn’t to chandeliers or blood or vows.

It was to a black van ceiling and the steady hum of a highway.

A new phone sat on my chest.

A passport tucked into my gown.

A new name waiting like a door.

I stared into the dark and let myself breathe.

They thought I was ash.

Good.

Let the Matthews mourn a ghost.

I was done being their bride.

---