Chapter 2 - The House of Cards
The chaos that followed Elena’s entrance did not erupt into shouting; it dissolved into a terrified, chaotic scramble. Half the guests stood up, whispering behind trembling hands, while others edged toward the exits as if a bomb had been planted under the altar.
Imogen pulled her hand out of Beckett’s grip. The silk of her glove felt heavy and suffocating.
"Beckett," Imogen said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy calm that she didn't know she possessed. "Who is she?"
"Imogen, please, let me explain," Beckett stammered, reaching for her hands, but she stepped back, letting the expensive tulle pool around her shoes. His eyes were wide with terror, not just of Elena, but of losing control. "I thought she was dead. My father... my father handled everything after the accident five years ago. He told me she took our daughter and drove off a cliff in Maine. He showed me the reports."
"Your father showed you," Imogen repeated, every word a small, sharp blow. "And you never checked? You never looked deeper?"
Before Beckett could answer, Arthur Thorne stood up from the front row. The old man’s face was dark with fury. He pointed a shaking finger at Elena. "Get this woman out of here! She is a deranged intruder! Security, remove her immediately!"
Two burly men in black suits moved down the aisle toward Elena, but Elena didn't flinch. Instead, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a thick, plastic-wrapped manila folder.
"Don't touch me," Elena warned the guards, her eyes fixed on Arthur. "Unless you want these documents floating around the Securities and Exchange Commission before the markets open on Monday morning. I have the wire transfers, Arthur. I have the dental records from theJane Doe pulled out of the ravine. And most importantly, I have proof of where you hid my daughter."
Arthur froze mid-step. The color completely vanished from his cheeks, leaving him looking like an old corpse propped up in a tailored suit.
Imogen stepped forward, her eyes burning as she looked between Arthur, Beckett, and Elena. "Where is the child?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Elena... you said she told everyone you abandoned your daughter. Who has the child?"
Elena turned her gaze to Imogen, and for the first time, the harsh, defensive wall around the older woman cracked. Her eyes filled with tears, but her jaw remained stubborn. "She was three years old when they took her from her crib and told me if I ever came back, they’d put me in the ground where they pretended I already was. They told her I didn't want her. They raised her in a boarding school three states away under a false name."
Elena took a step closer to the altar, looking directly at Beckett. "And you, Beckett? Did you really never wonder why your father insisted on sending you to London for six months right after the 'accident'? Did you really never wonder why you were never allowed to see the grave?"
Beckett staggered backward, colliding with the altar table and knocking a crystal vase of white roses to the floor. Water spilled across the pristine white linen like spreading blood. "No... no, that's not true. Dad wouldn't..." He turned to his father, his voice cracking with a lifetime of blind obedience turning to ash. "Dad? Tell me she's lying. Tell me you didn't..."
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Arthur didn't deny it. He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping under the weight of a decade of crimes catching up to him in a single afternoon.
Imogen looked at the man she was supposed to marry in less than five minutes. She looked at the tailored suit, the tear-stained face, the cowardice etched into every line of his expression. She reached up to her head, unpinned the heavy custom veil, and let it fall to the floor.
