Chapter 2 - The Shattered Altar
The heavy library door remained slightly ajar, letting in the muffled murmur of hundreds of confused guests seated on the grand lawn. String quartets played Pachelbel’s Canon on a loop, attempting to mask the delay, but the tension outside had already turned sour.
Vivian turned to Garrett, her face pale, the veins at her temples visibly bulging. “Garrett, get off the floor. Get up this instant! You can fix this. Go after Charlotte! Her father’s board controls thirty percent of our urban development financing! If she leaves, the Dane alliance crumbles!”
Garrett didn't move. He kept his face pressed into his hands for three long breaths. When he finally looked up, the vulnerability I had seen moments before had turned into something terrifyingly dark.
He stood up slowly. At six-foot-two, Garrett had always possessed a commanding presence, but right now, an aura of pure, absolute devastation radiated from him. He walked over to his mother until he was towering over her.
“You intercepted my mail,” Garrett said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “You controlled my servers. You went into my personal life and cut out my flesh and blood.”
“I was protecting your legacy!” Vivian hissed, retreating until her spine hit the mahogany bookcase. “You were twenty-eight years old, reckless, and married to a woman who refused to assimilate into our world! If you had known, you would have stayed in that miserable, stagnant marriage forever!”
“It wasn't your choice to make!” Garrett’s roar shattered the quiet of the room. The mahogany paneling seemed to vibrate with the sheer force of his fury.
The boys jumped. Wyatt whimpered, burying his face completely into my hip.
Instantly, the animalistic fury in Garrett’s eyes evaporated, replaced by frantic panic. He turned toward Wyatt, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch him, terrified of frightening him further.
“I’m sorry,” Garrett whispered frantically, dropping his voice to a gentle tremor. “I’m sorry, little man. I didn't mean to yell. I didn't mean to scare you. Please... I’m sorry.”
“Garrett,” I said, my voice steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “We need to leave.”
“No,” Garrett choked out, spinning toward me with raw terror in his eyes. “Elena, no. Please. You can’t take them away again. Not right now. I just... I just saw them.”
“We are not going to sit here while you handle the fallout of your cancelled wedding,” I said, keeping my arm firmly around Owen and Wyatt while Leo held my hand. “My children do not belong in a scandal. We’re going to a hotel.”
Before Garrett could answer, the library doors flew wide open.
It was Richard Bradford, Garrett’s uncle and the chairman of the family trust. His silver hair was swept back, his tuxedo pristine, but his florid face was tight with fury.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Richard demanded, scanning the room. He took in the sight of Charlotte’s diamond necklace on the floor, Garrett’s rumpled shirt, Vivian backed against the books, and then—inevitably—the three identical boys in miniature velvet tuxedos.
Richard stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw slackened. “My god.”
“Richard, call security,” Vivian demanded instantly, seizing on an ally. “Have Elena and these children escorted out through the service gates immediately. We have a crisis to manage with the Danes.”
“Shut up, Vivian,” Richard snapped without breaking his gaze from the boys. Richard was ruthless, but he was also pragmatic, and above all, he was obsessed with Bradford lineage. “They have Garrett’s chin. They have my brother’s eyes. Vivian... whose children are these?”
“They are my sons,” Garrett said. Every ounce of hesitation was gone from his voice. He stood between his mother and my children, facing his uncle directly. “Their names are Leo, Owen, and Wyatt. And the wedding is over.”
“Garrett, be reasonable!” Vivian cried out. “Think of your reputation!”
Garrett turned to his uncle. “Go out to the terrace, Richard. Tell the guests that the ceremony is cancelled. Tell them whatever you want. Tell them I was unworthy of the bride. But do not let a single person approach this wing of the house.”
Richard looked at Garrett, then at Vivian’s frantic, desperate expression, and finally at me. He nodded slowly, recognizing a seismic shift in power when he saw one. “Consider it done.”
Richard turned and exited, closing the doors behind him. Moments later, the music outside abruptly ceased. A heavy, reverberating silence fell over the Lake Geneva estate, followed immediately by the chaotic hum of five hundred people realizing the spectacle had imploded.
Garrett looked back at me. The bravado he had displayed to his uncle vanished, leaving behind a hollow, desperate man.
“Elena,” he whispered, his eyes pleading. “Let me drive you. Let me come with you. Don't disappear on me. I’m begging you.”
I looked at the man who had let me walk away five years ago, whose silence had broken my heart, but whose hands had evidently been tied by a monster of his own bloodline.
May you like
“The Grand Geneva Resort,” I said evenly. “Suite 402. You have one hour to clean up this disaster, Garrett. If you aren't there, we’re driving back to Chicago, and you can talk to my lawyer.”
***
