The guests had grown restless. Soft murmurs rolled through the room, broken by the occasional glance in her direction. Some held sympathy. Others—three in particular—watched her with open satisfaction.
Her father sat rigid in the front row, ready to put an end to this and push her toward the match he had chosen. She kept her focus forward. The bouquet of pale peonies rested cool against her palm, their scent faint beneath the heat of the lights.
A new sound cut through the noise—measured steps on polished marble. Steady. Certain. The murmurs died away, replaced by the echo of each footfall drawing closer. Zara's head lifted.
Vincent Macoy. Her secretary. The man who had promised to stand here with her.
The officiant's voice carried over the silence. "Now that the groom is here, let us begin the wedding."
They faced each other at the altar. The suit was familiar; the man wearing it was not. His hair, once parted down the middle, was slicked back. The glasses were gone. The lines of his face were sharper, his gaze steady in a way she'd never seen.
"Do you, Zara Martha Geller, take Vincent Ethan Macoy as your husband?"
"I do."
"Do you, Vincent Ethan Macoy, take Zara Martha Geller as your wedded wife?"
"I do." His voice rang clear. Confident. Almost foreign.
Applause followed, warm in some corners, cool in others. A few faces tightened as though tasting something spoiled.
Zara didn't move, but the thought lingered—this was Vincent's name and Vincent's face. Yet the man before her felt entirely different.
Zara held her composure, but the thought pressed in ' He is Vincent… yet his voice doesn't sound like his.' This was the same secretary who had followed her like a shadow, never speaking out of turn—until now.
At the reception, the change in him was impossible to miss. He carried himself with unhurried ease, taking a glass of wine as though it belonged in his hand, and downed it in one smooth swallow—no hesitation, no flicker of distaste. The timid shadow she'd known had vanished, replaced by a man polished, assured… and entirely unreadable.
While she tried to make sense of it, Vincent's focus was elsewhere. His gaze swept the room. It was slow and deliberate, skimming over familiar faces. It was the look of a man assessing, measuring, filing away every reaction. For him, this was restraint. His patience with mortals was thin, yet tonight, he wore civility like a well-fitted suit.
The quiet surge of pride running through him broke when a cluster of men approached, glasses in hand, grinning as they offered congratulations. They were, apparently, his office colleagues—though Vincent didn't recognize a single face.
One of them stepped closer, clapping a hand onto Vincent's shoulder. The touch was unwelcome. He brushed it off with a sharp flick, his voice low and edged. "How dare you?"
The man's smile faltered. "What, man? You've got an attitude now?"
Another man laughed, lifting his glass. "Now that he's married to the boss, of course he can act like that."
The remark earned him a single, cold stare from Vincent—enough to still the chuckles.
Oscar, who had caught the exchange while making his way over, stepped in before the mood could sour further. "Come on, give him a break. He's put in more effort for today than you realize," he said, his tone light but edged with warning.
The men exchanged glances, scoffed, and muttered their congratulations before drifting away into the crowd.
But the weight of the evening pressed too heavily. Before Oscar could reach him, Vincent excused himself, slipping out toward the lake behind the venue. The night air was sharp, cleaner—finally free of the suffocating chatter.
His gaze darkened, the calm veneer peeling away.
"That damned Winger," he muttered, voice low and venomous. "He dares to trick me? He lives for my suffering."
Anger rippled through him, coiling tight. Veins stood out along his temples, the glass in his hand groaning under his grip until it shattered. Shards bit into his palm, blood trailing down in thin rivulets—but Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't even notice.
Vincent was already weary of the noise and shallow chatter that clung to the reception. His patience thinned with every passing minute—until a hand landed on his shoulder.
He turned, gaze trailing from the hand to the face above it. Kathy Geller. His new sister-in-law.
The irritation in his eyes made her falter, though only for a second. Without his glasses, the sharpness of his features struck her differently. At the altar, she'd thought she was seeing things, but now it was undeniable. Vincent Macoy was handsome. Too handsome.
So this is why Zara chose him over Mason, Kathy thought, envy curling through her chest. She must have fallen for his looks. He's looking better than Mason, after all.
Vincent's smile was polite, but tight-lipped.
"Hm… and you are?"
"Don't tell me you've forgotten me, Vincent," Kathy purred, stepping closer.
His gaze flicked to the space between them, then back to her eyes. His voice dropped, firm. "Stand back."
Something in his stare sent a chill down her spine, but she ignored it, forcing a coy tilt to her head. If I can seduce him tonight—on her wedding night—it'll shame her into hiding.
"So," she pressed, "what will you gift my sister, brother-in-law?" Her glance slid toward Zara, who stood laughing lightly with a circle of executives.
Vincent's jaw clenched. The sight hit him in a way he hadn't expected, tightening something in his chest. A moment later he shook it off, almost surprised at himself.
"What gift?" he asked flatly.
"Oh, don't tell me you don't know? Every husband gives his wife something on their wedding day." Kathy's smirk widened.
Vincent's eyes moved from her back to Zara. "Fine."
"Well then…" Kathy leaned closer. "Meet me in the hotel room. I'll help you prepare a surprise for her." She reached for him, but a voice cut through.
"Son-in-law."
Avery Carnelin, Zara's stepmother, appeared like a blade of ice, her dark hair tied neatly into a bun. She rested a hand on Kathy's arm, her smile elegant but edged. "Can I borrow Kathy for a while? Your wife asked me to send you over to her."
Vincent didn't argue. He gave a curt nod and crossed to Zara, sliding a hand around her waist as he joined her circle. The move was instinctive, his smile automatic, though the lingering image of her laughing with other men stayed sharp in his mind.
Elsewhere, Avery tugged Kathy into a quiet corridor. "What were you doing with him?" she hissed.
"Mother, I—"
"I know what you were doing," Avery cut her off, eyes narrowing. "Do you have no sense? We're not even past the Mason debacle, and you're already trying to entangle yourself with Vincent? One wrong whisper and you'll hand them the weapon they need to ruin us."
"But, Mom… she'll get everything. All of it." Kathy's eyes flared.
"I know." Avery's voice softened, though the steel beneath it remained. She cupped her daughter's cheek. "That's why we must be careful. Vincent cannot be seen with you—not tonight. But soon. Tonight, we make our move."
Malice glimmered in Kathy's expression as she nodded. "I will, Mother. I'll snatch everything from her."