Freya's POV
The fist aimed for a second blow never connected.
"Lila!" Cecilia's scream pierced through the chaos. "Oh God, Lila!"
My father's grip on my hair loosened instantly. His fist, which had been aimed at my face, dropped to his side as he spun toward the commotion.
Lila had collapsed near the head table, her body crumpled on the floor in a heap of white silk. My silk. My dress.
"Call an ambulance!" Jasper's voice cracked with panic as he dropped to his knees beside her. "Someone call 911!"
Waylon released me completely, rushing down from the stage toward his precious daughter. I stumbled, catching myself against the microphone stand, my scalp burning where he'd yanked my hair.
The reception hall had descended into complete pandemonium. Guests were either crowding around Lila's unconscious form or fleeing toward the exits. Camera phones flashed from every direction, capturing the spectacular breakdown of what was supposed to be the social event of the season.
I watched from the stage as Jasper cradled Lila's head in his lap, her face pale as porcelain against the white fabric. For a moment, seeing them like that, I felt a flicker of something that might have been concern.
Then I remembered what that dress had cost me. What they both had cost me.
The flicker died.
"Is she breathing?" Cecilia sobbed, hovering uselessly over her daughter.
"Yes, yes, she's breathing," Jasper confirmed, his hands shaking as he checked her pulse. "Lila, can you hear me? Open your eyes, baby."
The endearment hit me like another slap. He'd never called me that. Not once in all those years.
Paramedics burst through the reception hall doors, their equipment clattering as they rushed toward the collapsed bride. The crowd parted reluctantly, everyone craning their necks to get a better view of the drama.
I straightened my shoulders and walked to the edge of the stage. The microphone lay abandoned on the floor, feedback still squealing intermittently through the speakers.
Time to make my exit.
I picked up the microphone one last time.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, my voice cutting through the chaos with crystal clarity. "Thank you for attending what I'm sure will be a very memorable wedding reception. The bar remains open, so please, drink up. After all, someone should enjoy this party."
Then I set the microphone down, lifted my chin, and walked off that stage like I owned the world.
The crowd parted before me as I made my way to the exit. Some stared in shock. Others whispered behind their hands. A few looked genuinely impressed.
I didn't care about any of them.
Outside the reception hall, I finally allowed myself to breathe. The cool evening air felt like a benediction against my burning cheek where my father had struck me.
My car was waiting in the valet area, keys already in hand. I'd learned long ago to always have an escape route planned.
I slid behind the wheel and started the engine, my hands surprisingly steady. In the rearview mirror, I could see ambulance lights flashing red and blue against the hotel's facade.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, my phone began buzzing incessantly. Text messages, missed calls, notifications from social media apps I rarely used. The story was already spreading.
Good. Let it spread.
I drove through the city streets on autopilot, my mind strangely calm despite everything that had just happened. The adrenaline was finally starting to ebb, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion that felt familiar.
This wasn't the first time my father had hit me.
It wasn't even the worst time.
Growing up in Waylon Colby's house had been a masterclass in survival. After my mother died when I was just a child, he'd remarried soon after, bringing Cecilia and her baggage into our home. Lila had been younger, all wide eyes and fake innocence. Neil had been just a boy and already showing signs of his father's cruel streak.
But I'd been the oldest. The one who remembered life before Cecilia. The one who asked uncomfortable questions about where my mother's jewelry had gone, why her pictures had been removed from the walls, why her memory was being systematically erased.
Waylon's solution had been simple: beat me into silence.
The first time, I'd been barely a teenager. I'd asked why Lila got to wear my mother's pearl necklace to her school dance when it had been promised to me. Waylon had backhanded me so hard I'd seen stars, then told me I was being selfish and ungrateful.
After that, the rules were clear. Don't question. Don't complain. Don't expect anything that rightfully belonged to Lila or Neil.
And never, ever, embarrass the family in public.
Well, I'd certainly broken that last rule tonight.
I pulled into my driveway and sat in the darkened car for a moment, finally allowing the tremors to start. My hands shook as I touched my cheek, feeling the tender swelling where his palm had connected.
Some things never changed.
Inside my villa, I went through the motions of normalcy. Hung up my coat. Kicked off my heels. Poured myself a glass of wine I didn't want.
That's when I noticed it tucked into my purse. A handkerchief I definitely hadn't put there.
I pulled it out, frowning. It was beautiful, clearly expensive. The fabric was silk wool of the finest quality, soft as a whisper between my fingers. In one corner, embroidered in elegant script, was a single name: Ben.
Ben.
I sank onto my couch, studying the handkerchief more closely. When had someone slipped this into my purse? And why?
Then I remembered. The man in the church pew. The one with the amused eyes who'd made that strange comment about misfortune and short lives. He'd been close enough during the chaos to slip something into my bag without me noticing.
But Ben? As in the Ben family?
Everyone in the city knew about the Bens. Old money, older power, and a reputation for staying out of the public eye. They owned half the city and controlled the other half through carefully cultivated influence.
And Second Master Ben was the most reclusive of them all. There were rumors he'd never been photographed by the press, that he moved through the world like a ghost, present but never seen.
Had he been at the wedding tonight?
My phone buzzed, jolting me from my thoughts. Katie's name flashed on the screen.
"Holy shit, Freya!" Her voice was breathless with excitement. "I just saw the videos! You were incredible! That speech was legendary!"
"Videos?" I rubbed my forehead. "How many videos?"
"Honey, you're trending on multiple different platforms. #WeddingFromHell is the top hashtag in the city right now."
Great. Just great.
"Are you okay though?" Katie's voice softened with concern. "I saw your father hit you. That bastard. Do you want me to come over?"
"No, I'm fine. Just tired."
"Freya..."
"Really, Katie. I just need to sleep."
After I hung up, I stared at the Ben handkerchief again. Such a small thing to cause such curiosity. But something about it felt significant, like a message I wasn't quite clever enough to decode.
I was still holding it when I made my way to the bathroom, searching through the medicine cabinet until I found what I was looking for. The small bottle of sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed during the worst of my insomnia.
I'd been relying on them more and more lately. The only way to quiet my mind enough to rest.
I swallowed a couple pills dry, then crawled into bed still wearing my clothes from the wedding. The handkerchief lay on my nightstand, its elegant embroidery barely visible in the darkness.
Sleep came mercifully fast.
I don't know how long I'd been unconscious when the alarm jolted me awake. Not my phone alarm. The security system.
Someone was trying to break into my house.
I sat up, disoriented and groggy from the pills. The red numbers on my clock showed it was deep into the night.
Then came the pounding on my front door. Violent, desperate knocking that echoed through the villa.
"Miss Colby!" A man's voice, frantic and breathless. "Please, if you're in there, we need your help! There's been a life-threatening situation!"