The music faltered.

The bride wasn’t looking at her billionaire groom. She was looking at the ghost in the shadows.

The confusion in the room was immediate. Three hundred heads swiveled. Whispers erupted like dry brush catching fire. Why did she stop? Is she ill?

Cold feet?

Chloe ignored all of it. She ignored William, waiting at the altar in bewilderment. She gathered fistfuls of priceless silk and pivoted, storming off the carpet, heels clicking furiously against the marble as she marched straight toward the shadows.

“Chloe, wait!” my father hissed, lunging from the front row. She was a heat-seeking missile.