CHAPTER 4 — WEDDING CRASH
The ceremony was at a hotel near Central Park, the kind with marble floors and staff trained to look invisible.
Ethan stood at the entrance grinning at guests like he’d personally invented love.
I tried not to laugh at him.
This man negotiated eight-figure contracts without blinking.
Now he was shaking hands like a golden retriever who’d found his favorite human.
The music shifted.
The doors to the aisle opened.
I lifted my dress and prepared to step into the spotlight.
A voice cut through the moment, too loud, too cheerful.
“Oh my god—Ethan! I’m late!”
Stella.
Red dress. Red lipstick. Red like a flare.
She darted past me and ran down the aisle first.
A ripple went through the room—the kind of sound people make when they’re watching a car swerve.
Someone whispered, “Who is that?”
Another voice: “Is she serious?”
Stella reached the front and spun around, hands raised, eyes already wet.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trembling. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know I couldn’t walk here.”
Her gaze flicked to me, quick and triumphant, before it turned pleading again.
“Ava, don’t be mad. Please.”
Ethan’s smile disappeared.
He took the mic before the officiant could recover.
His voice went cold.
“Security,” he said. “Remove her.”
Stella’s face broke in performance.
“Ethan—please—”
Two staff members approached.
Stella stumbled, as if the floor itself betrayed her.
The room watched her like a spectacle.
She was guided out.
The doors closed behind her.
I walked down the aisle with my spine rigid and my smile fixed.
The ceremony proceeded.
We made it through vows.
We made it through applause.
We made it to the reception, where Stella tried again—this time near the champagne tower, loud enough for half the room to hear.
“You can’t marry her,” she cried. “She’s after your money. She’s nobody.”
Someone nearby inhaled sharply.
Ethan didn’t even look at her.
He looked at me.
Then he looked back at Stella as if she were a stain on glass.
“You owe my wife for the mattress you contaminated,” he said flatly.
Stella blinked, caught off-guard.
“What—?”
Ethan raised his phone and read aloud like he was listing charges.
“Two hundred thousand,” he said. “Transfer it. Now.”
Stella’s parents appeared at the edge of the crowd, faces tight with panic.
Her mother started talking fast—apologies, excuses, family history.
Ethan held up a hand.
“Pay,” he said. “Or I file a report.”
Stella’s hand shook as she opened her banking app.
A second later my phone buzzed.
Deposit received.
I looked down at the notification.
Then I took a screenshot.
Receipts don’t care about holidays.