Chapter 2: Ethan POV
The hotel suite smells of coffee and aftershave, a chaotic blend of pre-wedding adrenaline. I'm standing in front of a full-length mirror, tugging at the cuffs of my tuxedo while Daniel fusses with my tie like I'm his personal mannequin. My groomsmen, half a dozen of my oldest friends and Carter Enterprises' top brass, are sprawled across the room, cracking jokes and pouring bourbon despite it being barely nine in the morning.
"Hold still, Ethan," Daniel mutters, his fingers deftly knotting the silk. "You're gonna look like a million bucks. Well, more like a billion, considering the Carter name."
I shoot him a look. "If you choke me with this thing, I'm demoting you to mailroom."
He grins, unfazed, his green eyes glinting with that annoying charm he's always had. "Relax, big brother. Today's your day. Sophia's gonna lose it when she sees you."
The mention of her name softens something in me, and I glance at my reflection. The tux is sharp, custom-made, every line perfect. But it's not about the suit. It's about her, Sophia, my Sophia, who's been my anchor through every storm. Today, she becomes mine forever.
"Alright, enough primping," I say, stepping back. "Let's get moving."
The groomsmen cheer, grabbing jackets and slapping my back as we pile into the elevator. Daniel's already on his phone, probably texting some poor girl he's stringing along. My best man, Mark, hands me a flask, but I wave it off. I want to be clear-headed when I see her walk down the aisle.
Outside, the morning air is crisp, the Manhattan skyline gleaming under a rare blue sky. Three black Rolls-Royces wait at the curb, their engines purring. I slide into sunrise on a cloudless day. The church is a twenty-minute drive, and I lean back, checking my watch. Plenty of time.
Daniel, sitting beside me, nudges my shoulder. "Nervous?"
I scoff. "Please. This is just another deal to close."
He laughs, loud and obnoxious. "Yeah, right. You're marrying Sophia Reynolds. That's not a deal, that's a damn dynasty."
I smirk, but he's not wrong. Sophia and I are more than a couple, we're a power move, the union of two families who run this city. The media's been eating it up for months, splashing our engagement photos across every tabloid. I don't care about the headlines, though. I care about her.
The car glides through traffic, and I pull out my phone, tempted to text Sophia. But I stop myself. She's probably drowning in hairpins and mascara, surrounded by her bridesmaids. Claire's with her, no doubt, making sure everything's perfect. That woman's a machine, five years as my assistant, and she's never missed a beat. I owe her for keeping this wedding on track.
We pull up to St. Patrick's Cathedral, its gothic spires stabbing the sky. The steps are already crawling with guests, senators, CEOs, the kind of people who don't wait for anyone. Photographers snap pictures, their flashes popping like gunfire. I step out, buttoning my jacket, and the crowd parts like I'm Moses at the Red Sea.
"Mr. Carter!" A reporter shoves a microphone in my face. "How's it feel to be tying the knot?"
I flash a practiced smile. "Best day of my life. Now, if you'll excuse me."
Daniel's at my side, steering me through the chaos. "You're too good at that," he mutters. "Save some charisma for the vows."
Inside, the church is a masterpiece of stained glass and candlelight. The organ hums softly, and the pews are filling fast. My father, Matthew, is already here, shaking hands with some board member. He catches my eye and nods, his silver hair catching the light. I nod back, then head to the altar, where the priest is waiting.
"Everything set?" I ask, shaking his hand.
"Perfectly, Mr. Carter," he says, his voice calm. "We're just waiting for the bride."
I glance at my watch again. Ten minutes until the ceremony. The groomsmen are in position, joking among themselves, but I tune them out, scanning the crowd. No sign of Sophia or her bridesmaids yet. Probably stuck in traffic. Manhattan's a nightmare on weekends.
Daniel leans in, lowering his voice. "You sure she's not pulling a runaway bride?"
I elbow him, hard. "Not funny."
He chuckles, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes, concern, maybe? I brush it off. Sophia's been planning this day for months. She's not going anywhere.
The minutes tick by, and the organist starts looping the same prelude. Guests shift in their seats, their murmurs growing louder. I clench my jaw, checking my phone. No messages. I dial Sophia's number, my thumb hovering over the call button. It rings once, then goes straight to voicemail. "This is Sophia. Leave a message."
I hang up, my pulse kicking up a notch. "Daniel," I say, keeping my voice low. "Call Claire. Find out what's going on."
He nods, stepping away to make the call. I force myself to smile, nodding at a guest who waves from the pews. My father approaches, his brow furrowed.
"Everything alright, son?" he asks, his voice quiet but firm.
"Fine," I say, too quickly. "Just a delay. You know how brides are."
He doesn't look convinced but pats my shoulder and returns to his seat. Daniel comes back, his face tight. "Claire's not answering either. Neither is anyone else in the bridal party."
A cold knot forms in my gut. "What the hell's going on?" I hiss, pulling him aside. "They should've been here by now."
"Relax," he says, but his tone lacks conviction. "Maybe the limo broke down. Or they're fixing a wardrobe malfunction. Sophia's got that insane dress, right?"
I don't respond, dialing Sophia again. Voicemail. I try Claire next, same result. The whispers in the church are louder now, like a swarm of bees. A woman in the third row leans over to her husband, her voice carrying. "Do you think she's not coming?"
My blood boils. I grab Daniel's arm. "Get someone to the Carter estate. Now. Find out where they are."
He nods, already texting. I turn back to the altar, forcing my face into a mask of calm. The priest catches my eye, his expression sympathetic. I want to punch something. This isn't happening. Sophia wouldn't do this. She loves me. She's said it a thousand times, in every late-night call, every stolen moment.
Mark steps up, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "She'll show, man. Women love to make an entrance."
I nod, but my hands are fists in my pockets. The organist switches to a new piece, and the crowd's murmurs grow bolder. A reporter in the back is typing furiously on her phone, probably live-tweeting my humiliation. I scan the doors, willing them to open, willing Sophia to glide through in that gown, her smile erasing this nightmare.
Fifteen minutes late. Then twenty. Daniel's back, his face grim. "No one's at the estate. The staff said the bridal party left an hour ago."
"An hour?" I snap, my voice louder than I mean it. Heads turn. I lower it, stepping closer. "Where the hell are they?"
"I don't know," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "I've got people checking the route to the church. Maybe an accident, "
"An accident?" I cut him off, my voice a growl. "You think I'm standing here while Sophia's hurt somewhere?"
"I'm just saying we don't know!" he shoots back, then softens. "Look, let's give it a few more minutes. Claire's probably got this under control."
Claire. The thought of her steadies me, just for a second. If anyone can fix this, it's her. She's been my shadow for years, anticipating my needs before I even voice them. But why isn't she answering? Why isn't anyone?
I'm about to call her again when the church doors creak open. A ripple of relief washes over me, but it's not Sophia. It's Claire, her chestnut hair slightly mussed, her navy dress wrinkled like she's been running. Two bridesmaids trail behind her, their faces pale. The crowd hushes, every eye on them.
Claire's gaze finds mine, and there's something in it, panic, maybe, or pity. My stomach drops. She hurries down the aisle, clutching something in her hand. She doesn't come to me, though. She veers toward Daniel, whispering something as she presses a folded piece of paper into his palm.
Daniel's eyes widen, and he looks at me, his jaw tight. "Ethan…"
"What is it?" I demand, stepping toward him. My voice echoes in the silent church.
He hesitates, then hands me the note. My fingers shake as I unfold it, the paper crinkling in the quiet. Sophia's handwriting stares back at me, each word a blade.
"I can't do this. I'm sorry."