(Emily's POV)
The cathedral's marble steps gleamed under the midday sun, but my stomach churned as I maneuvered through the swarm of paparazzi. Cameras clicked like a firing squad, their lenses trained on the arched doors of St. Patrick's. I clutched my tablet, dodging a reporter who shoved a microphone in my face.
"Ms. Carter! Is it true Victoria Monroe's missing?" he shouted.
"No comment," I snapped, pushing past. My phone hadn't stopped buzzing since that eerie photo of the empty chapel hit my inbox an hour ago. Texts from vendors, the wedding planner, even Daniel, Where's Victoria?, piled up unanswered. I had no answers. Only a gnawing dread.
Inside, the cathedral was a hive of chaos. Florists scrambled to adjust bouquets, their whispers sharp as they glanced toward the altar. The organist was arguing with the coordinator, who was frantically checking her watch. I spotted Margaret Sinclair near the front pew, her silver hair catching the light as she spoke to a man in a tailored suit, Charles, her lawyer, from the look of it. Her eyes met mine, cold and unreadable, before she turned away.
"Emily!" Sophia's voice cut through the noise. She hurried over, her red heels clicking, her face pale. "What the hell's going on? The guests are arriving, and there's no bride!"
"I don't know," I said, my voice tighter than I meant. "I'm trying to find out."
She grabbed my arm. "Nate texted me. He's outside, says the press is losing it. They're saying Victoria bolted."
My chest tightened. "She wouldn't. Not with this much attention." But Margaret's words from this morning, the real bride might not show, echoed in my head. I shook it off. "I need to check the bridal suite. Can you stall the guests?"
"Stall how?" Sophia hissed. "This is Adrian Sinclair's wedding, not a bake sale!"
"Improvise," I said, already moving. "You're good at that."
She muttered something about me owing her but headed toward the pews, her voice rising in a cheerful greeting to distract the early arrivals. I slipped through a side door, my heart pounding as I climbed the narrow stairs to the bridal suite. The hallway was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of roses. I knocked on the suite's door. "Victoria? It's Emily."
Silence. I pushed the door open.
The room was a mess. A champagne flute lay shattered on the floor, its contents soaking the cream carpet. Victoria's veil was draped over a chair, and her wedding gown, a custom Vera Wang that cost more than my rent for a year, hung abandoned on a mannequin, its train crumpled. My breath caught as I stepped closer. Something red gleamed on the vanity mirror. Lipstick. Scrawled in Victoria's signature shade.
"I'll never be hers."
I stared, my pulse racing. Hers? Who? Margaret? Me? The words felt like a slap, but I didn't have time to process. My phone buzzed, Adrian. I answered instantly.
"Where are you?" His voice was ice, but I caught the edge of something else. Panic.
"Bridal suite," I said. "Adrian, Victoria's not here. Her dress, her veil, they're just… left."
A pause. Then, "Get to the altar. Now."
"Adrian, "
"Now, Emily." He hung up.
I shoved the phone in my pocket, my eyes darting back to the mirror. The lipstick note stared back, taunting. I grabbed a tissue, tempted to wipe it away, but stopped. Evidence. Of what, I didn't know, but my gut screamed to leave it. I snapped a quick photo, then hurried out, the words burning in my mind.
The cathedral's nave was packed when I reached it. Guests in designer suits and glittering gowns filled the pews, their murmurs rising like a storm. The press, cordoned off near the back, snapped photos relentlessly. I spotted Daniel near the altar, his usual smirk gone as he spoke to a security guard. He saw me and waved me over.
"Em, this is a disaster," he said, keeping his voice low. "Adrian's on his way, but Victoria's vanished. Her driver says she never showed at the hotel."
I swallowed. "I found her gown upstairs. And… a note."
His eyes narrowed. "What kind of note?"
Before I could answer, the organ struck a chord, and the crowd hushed. The massive doors swung open, and Adrian strode in. Alone. Gasps rippled through the guests. Cameras flashed, blinding. His face was a mask, jaw tight, eyes like steel, but I knew him well enough to see the cracks. His hands flexed at his sides, a telltale sign of fury or fear. Maybe both.
He didn't pause, didn't acknowledge the stares, just marched to the altar. I slipped into the aisle, my heart hammering as I followed. Margaret intercepted him first, her voice a harsh whisper.
"Adrian, we need to address this. The press, "
"Not now," he cut her off, his tone lethal. He turned to me. "What did you find?"
I hesitated, aware of the eyes on us. "Her things are upstairs. She left a message on the mirror. It said, 'I'll never be hers.'"
His expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened. "Show me."
"We can't leave," I said, glancing at the crowd. "The guests are watching. The press, "
"Then handle it," he snapped. "You're good at that."
The words stung, but I nodded. "Give me five minutes."
I turned, catching Sophia's eye. She was charming a group of socialites, but she nodded when I mouthed help. I hurried to the side chapel, where the wedding planner, a frazzled woman named Clara, was pacing.
"Emily, we're screwed," she said, clutching her clipboard. "The officiant's asking if we cancel. What do I tell him?"
"Tell him to wait," I said. "We're sorting it out."
"Sorting it out?" She laughed, borderline hysterical. "The bride's gone!"
"I know. Just… buy us time." I didn't wait for her reply, already heading back to the nave. My phone buzzed again, Nathaniel. I answered as I walked.
"Em, you okay?" His voice was gruff, worried. "I'm outside. This is a circus."
"I'm fine," I lied. "Nate, something's wrong. Victoria left a note. It's… weird."
"Weird how?"
I lowered my voice. "It said she'll never be 'hers.' And her stuff's just abandoned."
A pause. "Sounds like she's running from something. Or someone. You sure she's not with Adrian?"
"He's here. Alone." The words tasted bitter. "Nate, can you check her hotel? Discreetly?"
"On it. But Em, be careful. This smells bad."
"I know." I hung up, my mind spinning. Victoria, running? From Adrian? From Margaret? The note didn't make sense, but it felt like a warning.
Back at the altar, Adrian stood rigid, ignoring the whispers. Daniel was beside him, murmuring something I couldn't hear. I approached, my tablet buzzing with alerts, tweets, news alerts, all screaming Sinclair Wedding Scandal. I silenced it.
"Adrian," I said quietly. "We need a statement. The press is eating this alive."
He didn't look at me. "What's there to say? She's gone."
"We can spin it," I said. "Say it's a delay, a misunderstanding. Anything to stop the feeding frenzy."
He finally met my eyes, and the raw pain there hit me like a punch. "Do it."
I nodded, already typing a draft for the PR team. Daniel leaned in. "Em, you're a saint, but this is beyond saving. Let me talk to the press."
"No," I said. "I've got it. Just… keep him together."
Daniel's jaw tightened, but he nodded. I stepped away, texting the PR lead: Drafting statement. Delay narrative. Hold off till I confirm. My fingers shook, but I kept going. This was my job. Fix the unfixable.
I was halfway through the statement when Clara rushed up, her face ashen. "Emily, you need to see this. In the suite."
"I already saw the note," I said, not looking up.
"No. There's more."
I froze, then followed her back upstairs, my pulse racing. The suite was as I'd left it, gown, veil, broken glass. But Clara pointed to the vanity. A folded piece of paper sat beneath the lipstick tube, my name scrawled on it in Victoria's handwriting.
I opened it, my hands trembling. The same red lipstick, jagged and angry: "You think you can take my place? Find the truth or be destroyed."