The jazz music swelled, masking the tension that now radiated from me. Marcus, seeing the disruption I’d caused, abandoned Chloe LaRue at the altar steps. She stood there, a vision in white silk, her perfectly coiffed hair catching the stage lights, a faint crease of confusion between her brows.
Marcus strode down the aisle, his usual swagger replaced by a tightly controlled fury. Four burly private security guards moved in formation behind him, their dark suits a stark contrast to the guests’ pastel finery. He didn’t even glance at the boys. His eyes were locked on me, blazing.
“Evelyn,” he hissed, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the din of conversations around us. “I asked you here as a courtesy. Not as a spectacle.”
He stopped a few feet away, close enough for me to smell the expensive cologne he favored. The triplets stiffened beside me, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
“This isn’t your property anymore,” Marcus spat, his chin jutting out. “You need to leave. Now.”
One of the security guards stepped forward, a hand reaching toward my arm. Malachi, my eldest, flinched, instinctively moving closer to me.
“Marcus, don’t,” I said, my voice quiet, but firm. I didn’t raise it. The whole room didn’t need to hear my battle with him.
He ignored me, turning to the guard. “Escort her and… her entourage out. Discreetly.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that just yet,” Devon Hollis interjected smoothly. He stepped forward, planting himself between me and the security guard.
Marcus’s eyes, already narrowed, flickered to Devon. “And who the hell are you?”
Devon gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. He held up his *Billboard Legal* badge, then gestured with his free hand. “Just a journalist, Mr. Beauchamp. But one with a very keen eye for what makes good television.”
He pointed toward a series of discreetly placed cameras around the room. Not just paparazzi, but broadcast-quality rigs with professional crews. One was mounted high above the main stage, its red light glowing. Another was near the entrance, aimed directly at us.
“Smile, Mr. Beauchamp,” Devon said, his voice a little louder now, clear enough to carry to those nearest us. “You’re live. Three national entertainment networks, right now. Over one point two million viewers. And climbing.”
Marcus’s face went from furious red to a ghastly pale. His eyes darted around the room, confirming what Devon had just said. The security guards froze, unsure how to proceed with the entire world watching.
“This is *my* wedding,” Marcus stammered, his voice losing its steel. “You have no right—”
“Actually, sir, the venue contract stipulates public access for pre-approved media,” Devon explained, cool as ice. “And given your public invitation, Ms. Saint-Claire and her party are perfectly within their rights to attend.”
He lowered his voice slightly. “Any attempt to forcibly remove them could be construed as assault on a public broadcast. And I’m sure your lawyers would advise against that.”
Marcus stood there, trapped, his gaze flicking between my defiant stance and the unblinking eye of a camera above us. His wedding, his grand spectacle, was unraveling faster than he could comprehend.
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