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
The world narrowed to a tunnel of pain and smoke. My head throbbed, and a searing agony shot up my leg. But all I could focus on was Caleb.
He lay still, half-pinned beneath the smoldering beam. His small chest was not moving.
“Caleb!” I shrieked, my voice raw, broken.
I scrambled, ignoring the pain in my leg, ignoring the flames now licking at the edges of the room. The heat was unbearable. The smoke choked me.
Martha was still at the window, screaming for help. Eli and Samuel, safe but terrified, were crying inconsolably.
I reached the beam. It was heavy, far too heavy for me to lift. But I had to. I had to get him out.
With a primal roar that tore through my chest, I gripped the charred wood, straining. My muscles screamed in protest. For a split second, it shifted. Just enough.
I lunged, grabbing Caleb’s small shoulders. He was limp, unresponsive. I pulled with everything I had left. His body scraped against the debris, but he came free.
He was bleeding. A sickening twist in his spine.
I dragged him, a lifeless weight, back toward the shattered window, through the rising flames and choking smoke. Martha reached in, pulling at Caleb’s arms. Together, we maneuvered him through the opening, laying his still form gently on the scorched grass outside.
“He’s not breathing!” Martha cried, her hands shaking as she tried to find a pulse.
I collapsed beside him, coughing, tears streaming down my face. Eli and Samuel huddled against me, their small hands clutching my dress, their eyes wide with incomprehension.
Around us, the compound was a scene of pandemonium. Assembly members fled, pushing past each other, ignoring the burning buildings. The once-sacred grounds were now a hellscape of fire and fear.
Meanwhile, in the burning archives, Rachel Beck, ignoring the frantic shouts of retreating guards, was focused on a single, vital task. She had located the fireproof safe, its heavy door warped by the intense heat, but still intact.
The lock was intricate. She worked quickly, her journalist’s instincts honed by years of chasing deadlines and elusive truths. The metal was scalding hot against her gloved hands.
With a final click, the safe door swung open. Inside, tucked away amidst other documents, was a thick, sealed envelope, aged and yellowed. It was labeled, in elegant script: “To be opened in event of my untimely demise – Founder Gideon Kincaid Sr.”
Rachel knew this was it. The founder’s confession.
She pulled it out, tucking it inside her protective camera bag. The heat was becoming unbearable. Flames were eating away at the ceiling directly above her.
She turned and ran, dodging falling debris, pushing her way through the panicked crowd. She could hear the distinct sound of powerful engines pulling up to the main gate. The sirens had stopped.
Outside the compound gates, two dark SUVs had arrived. Tall, imposing men, dressed in black suits despite the chaos, emerged from the vehicles. Viktor Radek stood among them, his face impassive as he surveyed the burning compound.
Rachel, breathless, raced toward them.
“Viktor Radek!” she shouted, holding up the envelope. “I have something for you! From Gideon Senior!”
Viktor’s eyes, cold as steel, fixed on the letter. He raised a hand, and one of his enforcers stepped forward, taking the sealed envelope from Rachel’s hand.
The man quickly, but carefully, tore open the seal. He scanned the pages inside, his expression unreadable. Then, he handed the letter to Viktor.
Viktor read it, his gaze unchanging. But a muscle in his jaw twitched. A faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture.
The fire raged behind them, casting an infernal glow on his face. He finished reading, then slowly folded the letter. He looked toward the burning compound, then toward the main gate, which was now being breached by his men.
“Gideon,” he murmured, his voice as flat and lethal as a drawn knife. “Such a foolish boy.”
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