Chapter 4 - The Objections Raised
The minister cleared his throat nervously, adjusting his ceremonial stole. "Julian, my boy, perhaps we should proceed with the liturgy first—"
"No, Father," Julian interrupted, never taking his eyes off Victoria. "There will be no vows spoken under false pretenses. Not in this house. Not before my family."
Victoria let out a breathless, melodramatic laugh, attempting to charm the frozen assembly. "Julian, darling, you're making a joke, right? The pressure has gotten to you. Look at everyone watching! Let's get through the ceremony, and we can discuss whatever spreadsheet is keeping you awake later."
She reached out to touch his lapel, her diamond engagement ring catching the light. Julian recoiled as if she had offered him hot coals.
"Do not touch me," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register of cold, vibrating venom.
Richard Sterling stepped between them, his face darkening from patrician calm to red fury. "What is the meaning of this insolence, Julian? You are embarrassing my family! You are embarrassing this entire congregation! If you have cold feet, you pull yourself together like a man and handle it in private!"
"Is that how you handled my mother forty minutes ago?" Julian countered, taking a single, predatory step forward.
The cathedral fell into absolute, suffocating silence. Even the choir children in the loft leaned over the brass railings, sensing the collapse of an empire.
Victoria’s gaze snapped toward me. In her eyes, the panic was no longer hidden; it was screaming. "Julian... she’s lying to you. Whatever she told you, she’s crazy! She’s been trying to sabotage us from day one because she can't let go of you!"
I stood up from the pew. The rustle of my emerald taffeta sounded like a whip crack in the stillness.
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I reached up with a steady hand and pulled down the high mandarin collar of my dress. The faint traces of Margaret’s powder were not enough to hide the angry, welted scratches that ran across my collarbone, nor the blooming purple bruise darkening beneath my cheekbone where Victoria’s ring had split the skin.
"Does a mother fabricate the imprint of your signet ring, Victoria?" I asked, my voice ringing out with an icy clarity that reached the farthest corners of the nave. "Or did you think that slapping me across the face would erase the paper trail you left in my son’s bank accounts?"
