Chapter 6 Archie
Archie
I knew something was wrong the moment the music stopped—and didn’t start again.
The organ cut off in the middle of a note, harsh and sudden, like someone had yanked the plug from the wall.
Silence rushed in first, thick and shocking.
Then the noise followed. Chairs scraped against the floor.
People shifted. Voices rose, confused and uneasy, whispers spreading fast from one pew to the next.
I kept my eyes fixed on the door.
I expected to see my bride. Veil in place. Head bowed. Exactly where she was meant to be. Exactly on time.
But the aisle was empty.
At first, my mind refused to accept it. It had to be a mistake. A delay. Maybe she’d tripped. Maybe someone had stopped her for one last touch-up. Any second now, she’d appear—breathless, embarrassed, blushing. The guests would laugh it off. The music would start again. But it didn’t.
I turned slowly, scanning the church. People were standing now, leaning toward one another, their whispers sharper the longer the silence dragged on. I couldn’t tell what I was seeing on their faces—curiosity, concern, or something closer to pity.
There was still no bride.
And with every second she didn’t appear, the silence grew louder, heavier, pressing down on the room like a warning no one wanted to say out loud.
“Where is she?” I asked, as George Gregory came floating down the aisle towards me.
Gregory’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again, like he was buffering.
“I—I don’t know,” he said. “She was here. She was ready.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline that never came.
“She wouldn’t do this,” he rushed on. “She knows what this means.”
“So do I,” I said quietly.
That was enough.
My men were already moving. Their phones came out and quiet orders were passed. Doors were blocked. The church shifted in seconds, snapping into control with practiced speed. Shoes turned sharply on the marble floors. Everyone went on high alert.
Someone had taken her. It had to be that.
Mikayla wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t choose to disappear. She wouldn’t humiliate me like this—not in front of everyone, not on my own wedding day.
Someone locked the main entrance. Another group spread out, checking side rooms, the vestry, the offices—anywhere she might be hiding or being held. Every corner was searched. Every door tested.
Behind us, the church erupted.
Guests shouted over one another. Chairs scraped. A few women started crying, which felt unnecessary given the circumstances. The priest tried to raise his voice, trying to take control of the situation.
It didn’t work. He was trying to command a room full of armed men. My men.
That was probably why the women were crying.
Gregory kept talking.
If it wasn’t bad enough that he’d lost my bride, he just kept going. That was his second mistake.
“She’s probably scared,” he said, wringing his hands. “We can fix this. I’ll talk to her. She’s emotional. She’s an emotional little thing.”
Something clicked into place then. Neat. Brutal.
Mikayla hadn’t been taken. She’d run.
I grabbed Gregory by the collar and dragged him through the side door into the chapel. The noise fell away behind us, swallowed by stone walls and incense thick enough to choke on. Candles flickered. Saints stared down at us, judgmental and useless.
“You sold her to me,” I said, shoving him back against the wall. “You don’t get to talk to me about her emotions.”
“She’s my daughter,” he snapped, finding his spine just long enough to irritate me.
“She was going to be my wife.”
He shook his head hard, sweat beading at his temples. “She wouldn’t run. Someone helped her. Someone took her.”
The back-pedalling did it.
Pick a story and commit, you spineless little bastard.
I stepped back and drew my gun.
Gregory’s eyes went wide. “Archie—wait—”
I shot him once, point blank. The sound was sharp and final in the small room. His body folded before it hit the floor.
Only silence remained in the room.
I stood there for a moment, breathing through my nose, waiting for the pressure in my chest to ease. It didn’t.
I turned and walked back into chaos.
“Find her,” I said to no one in particular. “Lock the city down until you fucking find my wife!” I roared.
My men didn’t hesitate as orders started flying every which way.
Mikayla Gregory.
She’d run. She’d humiliated me. That was unforgivable.
By the time I left the church, the city was already tightening with the sound of sirens in the distance. My men were fanning out, and we had people everywhere looking out for her.
She could hide for a night. Maybe two. But she was out there somewhere. Barefoot, because we retrieved her heels from the lawn beyond the church. Perhaps she was angling for a Cinderella type story.
Ah, my dear Mikayla. Are you a romantic at heart, baby?
I smiled to myself as I got into the car.
They didn’t find her.
That was the first report. Then the second. Then the third.
There was nothing on street cameras. No ID hits. No hospitals. No traffic stops. There wasn’t a single trace of her anywhere.
I sat in the back of the car and listened as my men failed me in increasingly creative ways.
“She could be hiding with someone.”
“She might’ve left the city.”
“She could’ve hurt herself.”
I told the last one to shut up.
Mikayla wasn’t fragile. She was stubborn. That had been obvious from the beginning. It was one of the reasons I wanted her. Women like her didn’t break easily. They just made people work harder. And I was more than ready for the challenge.
I pressed my fingers into my knee until the ache grounded me.
“Check churches,” I said. “Shelters. Hotels. Hospitals.”
“We already—”
“Do it again.”
The car slowed at an intersection. I leaned forward.
“And find out who helped her.”
Because someone always helped. Women like Mikayla didn’t vanish on their own. Someone opened a door. Someone gave her a ride. Someone thought they were being clever. That person was dead. They just didn’t know it yet.
My phone buzzed. Petro’s name appeared on the screen.
“She’s not anywhere she should be,” he said carefully. “Which means she’s somewhere she shouldn’t.”
That thought tightened my chest.
I pictured her running. Barefoot. Dress torn. Eyes sharp with defiance. I’d seen it before, early on, when she still thought resistance mattered. I’d liked that too.
The first time I saw her, she’d been standing beside her stepfather at a dinner she didn’t want to attend. He was loud. She wasn’t. She watched everything. Everyone. When our eyes met, she didn’t look away fast enough.
My heart had done that stupid thing again.
I should’ve known better.
It had happened before. Twice. The same rush. The same certainty. The same mistake.
Both women had disappointed me in the end. They had pushed until they needed to be corrected. Both were now… gone.
This time was worse, because this one had embarrassed me.
I closed my eyes and breathed slowly, counting out the way I’d been taught. Control was important. Rage was useful, but only when aimed properly.
“She thinks she’s free,” I said. “She won’t be for long.”
The city felt smaller by the minute. Streets tightening. Doors closing. Everyone suddenly cautious, like they could feel something circling.
“She’ll get tired,” one of my men said. “She’ll need help.”
“Yes,” I said. “And when she does, she’ll choose the wrong person to go to.”
The world was a cruel, ugly place. Freedom wasn’t the gift people pretended it was. It exposed you. It left you unprotected.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Mikayla out there alone—vulnerable to the wrong people, the wrong kind of attention. She was stubborn, defiant, convinced she could survive anything. But defiance didn’t stop predators. It only made them curious.
That was what scared me most.
Not that she’d run—but that she’d be found. Used. Passed from hand to hand by men who wouldn’t care who she was or what she was worth. Men who would take everything from her and leave nothing behind.
I clenched my jaw.
Because if anyone was going to break Mikayla Gregory—strip her down, reshape her life, leave their mark—it wasn’t going to be some stranger.
It was going to be me.
I opened my eyes.
“When we find her,” I said, “I won’t accept anything less than an apology…on her hands and knees.”
“And her father?” Enzo asked quietly.
I smiled without humor.
“He already paid. Give the poor sod a proper burial.”