Chapter 23 #3
The pain meds are kicking in, so I straighten my spine, adjust my cufflinks, play the part, smile when expected, nod when prompted. Be the loyal soldier about to get his reward.
The organ music swells.
The double doors at the back of the chapel swing open.
And everything stops.
Every calculation. Every exit strategy. Every thread of control I've been clinging to—gone.
She appears in the doorway, backlit by the golden light from the foyer, and my lungs forget how to function.
The dress isn’t just beautiful. It’s devastating.
Silk and lace catch the light in soft, deliberate movements, nothing flashy, nothing excessive—just enough to remind me how wrong it is for something this pure to exist in a room like this.
The bodice fits her cleanly, elegant and restrained, the neckline modest without trying to be.
The skirt falls in quiet waves that move when she does, like it’s following her lead instead of the other way around.
She looks… untouched by the danger. Unaware of it. Or worse—aware, and walking forward anyway.
The room blurs. The chandeliers fade. The watching eyes, the lieutenants with their phones, the women whispering behind gloved hands—none of it matters.
There’s only her.
She moves like she owns the room, like she isn't walking into a trap. And something cracks open in my chest.
I want to protect her. I want to grab her hand and run. I want to tell her to turn around, to get out, to save herself before it's too late.
But I can't move. Can't speak. Can't do anything but stand here and watch her walk closer, step by terrible step.
Adena
Helpless.
That's the only word that fits. I'm standing at an altar surrounded by killers in designer suits, and I can't do a single thing to stop what's happening.
The celebrant—some priest they've paid off or threatened—opens a worn leather book. His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling, solemn and ritualistic, like this is sacred instead of a carefully orchestrated trap.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God..."
My hands grip the bouquet so tight the stems bite into my palms. Jagger stands across from me, his face unreadable except for the tightness around his eyes.
He looks fine. Physically, at least. I should feel relieved he’s intact.
Instead, I want to scream Silas’s warning in his face. But Marquez is watching from the front row, Valentina beside him, both smiling like proud parents.
The priest continues, using Scripture about love and faithfulness and covenant. Words that mean everything to me but sound hollow bouncing off these marble walls.
"Marriage is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, and solemnly, before God and in the presence of these witnesses..."
My pulse hammers. Jagger's eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second—and I see the same trapped-animal desperation. The same question: Is there any way out of this?
The answer stares back at us from every corner of the room.
The priest turns to Jagger first. "Jagger Rourke, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part, before God and these witnesses? "
My pulse thrums as the words sink in.
We’re out of time. Silas hasn’t intervened.
This is really happening.
Jagger doesn't move. Doesn't speak. His jaw works like he's trying to force the words out, but they won't come.
I let my eyes bore into his. Let him see the truth written there—it’s okay. We’re going to be okay.
His throat bobs. His hands flex at his sides.
"I do."
The priest turns to me, and suddenly I can't breathe. The veil feels suffocating. The dress too tight. The room too small.
"Adena Graceson, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, till death do you part, before God and these witnesses?"
Obey.
The light shifts. The air thins.
The stage lights sear through my vision like white fire. My name echoes through the speakers, and somewhere in that darkness beyond the glare, hundreds of eyes lock onto me.
My feet won't move. My lungs won't fill. The curled ringlets my mother spent an hour perfecting feel like they're suffocating me.
This is what I'm supposed to want. This is what I'm supposed to be. Poised. Perfect. Smiling through the terror.
The silence swallows everything.
I finally take a step forward, but it's not me moving. It's the product they've built. I glance at Valentina, and her face melts hideously into my mother’s.
I blink, hard, tear my gaze away and look across the altar instead at Jagger.
My breath stutters when he slyly winks at me.
I still don’t know if he committed his life to Christ last night, but I have to trust that this marriage is going ahead because God wills it.
Still, I pray quickly. Lord, You see my heart and his. You see why we’re doing this. Hold us through what comes next.
"I do," I say.
The priest smiles. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." He closes the book with a soft thud. "You may kiss the bride."
Jagger steps forward and leans in. His mouth brushes mine, deliberate and sure, and it seals this more than the vows ever could.
His kiss isn’t for them.
It’s for God.
For me.
For the truth that obedience doesn’t always look like escape.