Chapter 4 - The Altar of Deceit**
The Grand Cathedral of Columbus was a breathtaking spectacle of white roses, twinkling crystal chandeliers, and three hundred seated celebrity guests dressed in black-tie formalwear. Outside, thousands of fans and media outlets crowded the streets behind heavy steel barricades, holding signs wishing us a happy life together.
In the private bridal suite behind the altar, I stood before the tall ornate mirror. I had removed the heavy gauze from my face that morning, revealing the dark, twisted, angry chemical burns that clawed down the right side of my jawline and across my cheek. I refused to cover it with heavy theatrical makeup. I wanted every camera in America to see what Christian Prescott had tried to destroy.
A delicate, sheer lace veil hung down from my updo, partially shadowing the scars on my right side while leaving my left profile sharp and unyielding.
The heavy oak door swung open, and Christian walked in, looking devastatingly handsome in a bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening slightly as he caught a glimpse of my scarred face beneath the veil. A flicker of genuine horror crossed his features, quickly masked by his trademark silver-screen smile.
“You look... brave, my love,” Christian murmured, stepping forward to take my trembling gloved hand. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? We can do a private ceremony upstairs if the cameras—”
“No, Christian,” I interrupted, my voice steady, clear, and lacking any trace of submission. “The world deserves to see what you created. Let’s go get married.”
A strange, uneasy shadow crossed his eyes, but the intoxicating rush of television cameras and public adoration pushed all doubts aside. He offered his arm, and together, we walked out toward the grand oak doors of the cathedral.
As the majestic wedding march began to play, the massive doors swung outward, revealing a sea of flashing lights, rolling camera jibs, and three hundred guests rising to their feet in breathtaking awe.
We walked down the long aisle step by step. Christian walked with a confident, triumphant stride, smiling warmly at the cameras, completely unaware that the financial executioner’s axe was hovering directly above his neck.
Standing at the altar, the elderly minister cleared his throat and opened the velvet-bound Bible.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—”
*BZZZZ. BZZZZ. BZZZZ.*
A sharp, vibrating chime cut through the sacred silence of the cathedral. It wasn't just one phone. Suddenly, forty different cell phones belonging to high-profile music executives, board members, and prominent guests sitting in the front rows began buzzing simultaneously.
Christian’s jaw tightened. He tried to ignore it, flashing a tight, strained smile at the minister. “Please, continue.”
“Christian,” whispered the record label CEO sitting in the third row, his face completely drained of color as he stared down at his glowing smartphone screen. “Christian, look at your phone. Right now.”
Annoyed, Christian pulled his custom platinum smartphone out of his tuxedo pocket. He pressed the screen, expecting a routine alert from his management team.
Instead, a freezing cold sweat instantly broke out across his forehead.
The screen displayed an emergency broadcast notification sent directly to every major news outlet in the country, accompanied by a public press release from The Genesis Foundation for Acid Attack Survivors and the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.
*BREAKING: Pop Star Christian Prescott Indicted on Federal Charges of Conspiracy, Torture, and Mutilation; Assets Frozen and Catalog Seized Following Acid Attack Revelation.*
And attached to the public notification was a synchronized audio file—the crystal-clear recording of Christian standing in Room 412 of St. Jude Medical Center, casually admitting to paying a hitman to throw acid in my face, poisoning my womb to prevent children, and framing me as an unstable fiancée.
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The cathedral erupted into absolute, deafening chaos.
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