The atmosphere inside St. Jude’s Cathedral was not one of holy reverence, but of a heavy, suffocating judgment. I stood at the altar, my fingers white-knuckled around a bouquet of roses. I gripped them so tightly that the thorns breached the silk ribbon, piercing my palms.
The stinging pain was the only thing keeping me upright as the silence of the sanctuary was replaced by the restless shifting of four hundred bodies. It had been forty-five minutes since the ceremony was supposed to begin. The organist had long since ceased the prelude, leaving only the echoed whispers of the city’s elite to fill the vaulted ceiling. They spoke of my lineage—or lack thereof—wondering aloud how a man like Ryan Vance could ever settle for a mere nurse.
I kept my gaze fixed on a stained-glass martyr, feeling a kinship with the cold stone and lead. My Vera Wang gown, a gift Ryan’s mother reminded me cost more than my father’s annual salary, felt like a leaden weight. My father had passed three years ago, leaving me with no family to stand at my side. I was a solitary figure in a sea of strangers, faces belonging to Ryan’s business associates and his mother’s social circle, all of whom viewed me as a blemish on their polished world.
In the front row, Mrs. Vance sat in a silver gown that bordered on bridal. She didn’t look worried; she looked triumphant. When our eyes met, she offered a small, predatory smile that confirmed my burgeoning dread. Ryan had texted an hour ago, claiming a “work emergency” regarding a merger. “Just wait for me,” he had said. And like a fool, I waited.
Searching for an exit, my eyes landed on the very back pew. There, partially obscured by the shadows of the choir loft, sat Julian Thorne. He was the enigmatic CEO of Titan Corp, a billionaire recluse who never attended such trivialities as weddings. Ryan had sent the invitation as a desperate social climb, never expecting the man to appear. Yet Julian was there, his intense, unblinking gaze fixed entirely on me. It wasn’t a look of pity, but of profound calculation. Three years ago, on a rain-slicked highway, I had pulled a man from a burning wreckage and bandaged his wounds with my own clothing. I knew the scar on Julian’s hand because I was the one who had stopped his bleeding. I had assumed I was just a blur of scrubs to him, a forgotten face from a traumatic night.
The heavy oak doors groaned open, but it wasn’t the groom who entered. Mrs. Vance had slipped away during my daze and was now marching up the aisle with a wireless microphone in one hand and a brimming glass of red wine in the other. She ascended the marble steps, turning her back to me to face the congregation. Her voice boomed through the speakers, announcing that there would be no wedding—at least, not this one. She turned to me with a sneer of pure malice, informing me that Ryan was across town with Isabella Sterling, a “real” heiress with the pedigree I lacked.
She leaned in, her voice amplified for every guest to hear, and branded me a “placeholder.” I was the girl who did the laundry and kept the bed warm while Ryan climbed the social ladder. To the Vances, I was simply clutter that needed to be cleared. With a violent jerk, she tore the lace veil from my head, the comb scraping painfully against my scalp as my hair fell in a ruined heap. Then, she raised her glass. “White doesn’t suit a discard,” she mocked. The cold Cabernet hit me full in the face, stinging my eyes and soaking into the pristine silk of my bodice, turning it into a blood-red ruin.
As the front row erupted in tittering laughter, I sank to my knees. The weight of the wine-soaked dress dragged me down, and the humiliation felt like a physical pressure crushing my lungs. I closed my eyes, wishing for the earth to open and swallow me whole. Mrs. Vance hissed at me to leave before security arrived. But then, the laughter died.
The rhythmic, terrifyingly purposeful sound of polished leather striking marble echoed through the cathedral. Click. Click. Click. Julian Thorne stepped onto the altar, his presence so commanding that the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. He ignored the gasps of the crowd and knelt in the pool of wine beside me, heedless of his expensive suit. His hand, warm and steady, landed on my shoulder. “Look at me, Maya,” he whispered with a dangerous gentleness. “Don’t fall apart. Not when you’re about to win.”
Julian stood, pulling me up with him. He used a silk handkerchief to wipe the wine from my eyes, his touch as light as a feather. When Mrs. Vance tried to intervene, calling me a “nobody,” Julian turned on her with the predatory grace of a wolf. His voice, naturally resonant and authoritative, filled every corner of St. Jude’s. He recounted the accident from three years ago, describing how dozens of people had slowed down only to take photos of his burning car, while only one person had the courage to stop and save his life.
“She is the only person in this room with a soul,” Julian declared, his arm wrapped firmly around my waist, pulling my stained form against his side. “And you dare to call her a placeholder?” Mrs. Vance stammered an excuse, but Julian cut her down. He revealed a truth that shattered her triumphant facade: Isabella Sterling didn’t exist. She was an actress Julian had personally hired from London to test Ryan’s loyalty. The “merger” Ryan was chasing was a phantom, a trap designed to expose the depth of his greed.
Mrs. Vance dropped her microphone, the screech of feedback punctuating her horror. Julian looked down at me, his eyes dark with an unspoken promise. “This wedding is indeed canceled,” Julian announced to the stunned crowd. “But the celebration isn’t. Maya, you were never meant for a mid-level manager. You were meant for the top of the tower.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He led me down the altar, past the pale, trembling Mrs. Vance and the whispering socialites. As we reached the back of the church, he paused and looked at me, his thumb brushing a stray drop of wine from my cheek. “You saved me once,” he said, his voice low enough only for me to hear. “Now, let me rewrite the rest of your story. Pretend you’re marrying me, just for today, and I will make sure the Vances never find a place in this city again.”
In that moment, the blood-red stain on my dress felt like a badge of honor rather than a mark of shame. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked out of the cathedral on the arm of the most powerful man in the city. The thorns had stopped stinging, and for the first time in years, the future didn’t look like a series of hospital shifts and lonely nights. It looked like a beginning. I left the wreckage of Ryan Vance behind on the marble floor, stepping out into the sunlight where a new life—one built on truth and a billionaire’s fierce gratitude—was waiting to be written. Would you like me to continue with how Maya and Julian’s fake engagement turns into a real power play against the Vance family?
