My Ex-Husband Inviting Me to His Cult Wedding to Humiliate Me Didn't Expect My Five-Year-Old Triplets to Walk Down the Aisle
Far from the spiritual grandeur of the Assembly’s central sanctuary, in a dimly lit, nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of Twin Falls, Gideon Kincaid sat across a scarred metal table from Viktor Radek. The smell of diesel and stale cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the compound’s incense and pine.
Viktor, a hulking man with eyes like chipped ice, tapped a thick finger on a tablet screen. The screen displayed a live feed: Rachel Beck, my investigative journalist contact, was being interviewed by a local news crew at the Assembly’s main gate, holding up a printout of the covenant land-trust.
“Rachel Beck,” Viktor said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of inflection. “She asks too many questions.”
Gideon shifted in his seat, the silk of his wedding suit feeling suddenly restrictive. “She’s an agitator, Viktor. A sensationalist. She has no real power.”
Viktor’s gaze hardened. “Her camera crew broadcasts to Boise. Tomorrow, it will be CNN.”
He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table. A thin, silver ring on his index finger glinted under the bare bulb hanging overhead.
“Our operation, Gideon, relies on quiet. On anonymity. Your ‘Sacred Assembly’ is a tax haven, a blind for movement. Not a stage for public drama.”
Gideon swallowed hard. He remembered the first meeting with Viktor eight years ago, when his gambling debts had spiraled out of control. The Assembly’s founder, his father, had still been alive, but Gideon needed quick cash. Viktor had offered it, in exchange for unfettered access to the compound’s remote lands for his smuggling routes. The tax-exempt status of the Assembly provided perfect cover.
Now, that cover was threatened.
“This woman, Beck, speaks of expired covenants,” Viktor continued, his eyes narrowed. “She speaks of concealed heirs. Legitimate male heirs. My lawyers are tracking her reports.”
Gideon felt a fresh wave of panic. He had been so careful to keep the covenant clause secret. His father had insisted on it, a final, spiteful failsafe in the Assembly’s charter, designed to prevent any unworthy successor from holding power if they proved infertile or deceitful about progeny.
“It’s a misunderstanding,” Gideon insisted, his voice cracking. “Hannah is a bitter ex-wife. Her claims are baseless.”
Viktor chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Baseless claims do not draw network television. Baseless claims do not threaten federal tax audits.”
He pushed a small, burner phone across the table. It buzzed once.
“Our transport for illegal agricultural products, for untaxed timber, for high-value contraband, uses your land. Hundreds of thousands of dollars move through your ‘sacred’ grounds weekly. This cannot stop.”
He fixed Gideon with a chilling stare. “You have 24 hours, Gideon. Twenty-four hours to remove this ‘press coverage.’ To silence this ‘agitation.’ To resolve your domestic issues.”
Gideon felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. “Or what?”
Viktor picked up a small, gleaming chrome pistol from beneath the table, twirling it idly between his fingers. It looked less like a weapon and more like an extension of his cold, efficient hand.
“Or,” Viktor said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “the syndicate will purge the entire leadership of the Assembly. Starting with you.”
He placed the pistol back down, the metallic click echoing in the small space.
“And it will be a purge so clean, Gideon, that the federal agents will find nothing but a vacant compound. No leaders. No witnesses. No trail.”
Gideon stared at the pistol, then at Viktor’s impassive face. The warehouse air suddenly felt thin, impossible to breathe. The lavish wedding, the adoring crowd, the power he craved—all of it seemed to dissolve into ash.
He had exactly one day to make his problems disappear. And the first problem was Hannah. The second, his own sons.
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