Chapter 6 - The Altar of Deceit
The organ shifted into the traditional bridal march. The entire congregation stood up in unison, turning their heads toward the back of the church.
Celeste walked down the long, red-carpeted aisle on the arm of her uncle. She looked breathtaking—a vision of pure, innocence-simulating white in a custom lace gown with a ten-foot train trailing behind her. Her veil was sheer, revealing her radiant, victorious smile. To everyone in that room, she was the luckiest woman in the country, about to seal her place atop a multi-billion-dollar dynasty.
She reached the altar, stepping up onto the marble platform. Her uncle placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were ice-cold, trembling slightly with pure excitement.
"You look stunning," I whispered.
"You look powerful," she whispered back, her eyes shining with greed.
The bishop began the service, his deep, resonant voice filling the silent cathedral. He spoke of love, devotion, trust, and the sacred bond of marriage. Throughout the sermon, Celeste kept her eyes fixed on mine, her smile unwavering, silently urging the priest to hurry toward the vows.
"And now," the bishop announced, turning to the ceremonial table where the leather binder sat, "the bride and groom will recite their personalized vows and execute their marital covenant."
Victor stepped forward immediately, opening the binder and placing a platinum pen into Celeste’s hand. He then set a second pen near mine.
Celeste took her breath, turning to face me completely. She leaned in close, her voice a soft, breathless whisper meant only for me: "Say I do, Adrian. Let's make this official."
I looked down at the open page of the legal document inside the binder—the document that would hand over my father's enterprise to her shell companies.
Then I reached into my inner tuxedo pocket.
Instead of pulling out my vow card, I pulled out a tiny, worn black leather notebook.
Celeste’s smile froze. Her eyes dropped to the black notebook in my hand, and for a fraction of a second, the colour drained entirely from her face.
"What is that?" she whispered, her voice suddenly devoid of all warmth.
May you like
I did not answer her. I opened the notebook to March 14th, looked up at the bishop, and then looked directly into the lens of the primary live-stream camera mounted on the central pillar.
"Before I give my answer," I said, my voice projecting clearly through the cathedral's sound system, "there are a few signatures we need to review."
