CHAPTER 191: INTRUSION II

The doors closed behind him with a heavy sound that made everyone in the ballroom go quiet. A last bit of sunlight slipped through before the doors shut completely.

Devon Aldridge stood there, and the room seemed to tense at once. His black coat hung open as he stepped inside, calm and confident, instantly drawing every eye in the room.

Beneath it a white dress shirt, crisp and expensive, collar open, top three buttons undone, revealed the strong column of his throat and the faint silver of an old scar disappearing beneath fabric.

Hair pushed back by the wind outside, black strands falling forward again across his forehead, a little wild, a little dangerous.

Jaw carved sharp enough to cut diamonds, cheekbones catching the light like they had been forged for it.

He took one step inside.

Crack.

Rose petals burst crimson beneath the sole, staining the white runner like fresh blood.

Another step.

Crack.

More petals died, perfume rising thick and sweet and wounded, clinging to the air like a dying breath.

Each footfall echoed louder than the quartet had ever played, louder than the collective gasp that rippled through the room.

Ethan turned into living fury.

The proud golden groom vanished.

In his place stood a man whose face had gone the color of a fresh bruise. Veins bulged thick at his temples, pulsing visible under the skin.

His jaw locked so hard the muscles jumped and twitched.

Fists clenched at his sides, knuckles bleaching bone-white against the black tux, seams straining at the shoulders.

His best man Jake took one full step back, eyes wide, hand half-raised like he might need to tackle Ethan before he launched himself off the stage.

Serena became glass about to shatter.

Veil still floating around her face like a halo that had lost faith, bouquet trembling so violently white petals snowed onto her crystal heels and the marble beneath.

Lips parted on a breath that never quite finished. Eyes huge, pupils blown wide and black, shimmering with shock, guilt, terror, and a helpless heat she could not hide.

A tiny broken sound slipped out, soft, raw, almost a moan, and the bouquet slipped an inch, two inches, before her fingers clamped desperate around the stems, thorns pricking through gloves, a bead of blood blooming red on white satin.

Marianne Voss looked like death had just whispered her real name.

Every drop of color drained from her face until the champagne silk glowed brighter than her skin.

Tiny beads of sweat popped instant across her hairline, her upper lip, gathering at her temples, shining under the chandeliers like scattered diamonds on porcelain.

One trembling hand flew to her throat.

"Who is he?"

"Why does Ethan look like he’s about to commit murder in front of five photographers?"

"Did the bride just whimper?"

"Is this some kind of rich-people prank?"

Ethan’s mother dug crimson nails into her husband’s forearm hard enough to leave half-moons through navy wool.

"Richard. Tell me you know that man."

Richard eyes narrowed to slits, scanning Devon up and down like he was trying to place a predator he had only ever seen in warning photos.

"Never seen him before. But I already want him gone."

The pastor stood clutching his leather Bible.

He cleared his throat once, twice, three times, voice cracking into the suffocating silence. "Young man... if... if you have something to say, or if you wish to object to this marriage... the floor is yours."

The entire ballroom inhaled and held it.

A single white petal drifted down from the floral arch and landed on Ethan’s polished shoe like a surrender flag.

Devon stopped exactly halfway down the aisle, close enough to taste their fear, far enough to make them wait until it hurt.

He let the silence stretch until spines started to ache, until champagne bubbles stopped popping, until even the ice in the buckets seemed to pause mid-melt.

Then he looked left, slow and deliberate, letting every woman on that side feel the weight of his stare settle on her skin like a hand, lingering just long enough to watch pupils dilate, throats swallow, thighs press together under silk gowns.

He looked right, doing the same, a few wives actually shivered hard enough for their earrings to tremble, for their husbands to notice and frown.

Finally his gaze lifted to the altar.

First to Marianne, who flinched so violently her diamond necklace rattled like bones, her hand flying to her pearls as if they could protect her.

Then to Serena, whose knees buckled visible, veil fluttering as she swayed, Ethan’s arm shooting out to steady her, grip white-knuckled and bruising.

Finally to Ethan, whose glare could have melted steel, but Devon met it calm, almost tender.

A small lazy smile curved Devon’s mouth.

It was beautiful.

It was devastating.

It never once touched his eyes.

"No," he said, voice low, rough velvet dragged over gravel, carrying effortless to the very back row like the room had been built for his voice alone.

"I don’t object."

"I support this wedding completely. Ethan, Serena..."

He paused, letting their names linger in the air like smoke from a fire no one else could see, hanging heavy, intimate.

"I wish you every happiness life can give. Truly. All of it. May you have everything you deserve."

A confused wave of gasps, murmurs, and nervous laughter rippled outward, growing, spreading.

Marianne’s knees almost gave out entirely,

relief flooded her face so hard tears welled instant, ruining her mascara in perfect black tracks that she dabbed quick with a lace hanky, shoulders sagging like a weight lifted.

Ethan looked ready to levitate off the stage and strangle Devon with his bare hands.

The pastor swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed visible.

He forced a smile bright and brittle, voice cracking faint. "Well... splendid! Then by the power vested in me, by the state and by divine grace, I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride!"

Ethan turned to Serena like a man in a trance, movements stiff, mechanical.

The kiss was stiff, mechanical, lips barely brushing, bodies held apart by rage and shock, his hand on her waist trembling with leftover fury, hers clutching his lapel like it was the only thing keeping her vertical.

Half the room saw Serena’s eyes flick past Ethan’s shoulder one last desperate time toward Devon.

Polite cheers rose, then louder, frantic, trying to smother the weirdness, to fill the hole Devon had carved in the room.

Guests swarmed the open bars like they had been wandering the desert for days, elbows sharp, voices rising.

Ice clinked frantic in silver buckets, cubes cracking loud as bottles plunged in.

Corks popped like gunshots in the distance. Champagne flowed in golden rivers, flutes clinking constant, bubbles racing to the surface and bursting frantic.

Waiters in white gloves rushed around topping glasses, trays silver gleaming under chandeliers, condensation dripping cold down crystal stems.

Whispers turned into open, delicious, unstoppable gossip, voices rising over the music like steam off hot pavement.

"Jesus, Mary... no wonder Ethan looked ready to cry. If that man walked into my bedroom I would forget I was married to a senator and start speaking in tongues."

A stunning brunette in backless crimson silk, ring the size of a small planet flashing under the lights, bit her glossy lip hard enough to leave teeth marks, eyes glazed.

"Did you see the bride’s face?"

"She looked one second away from dropping to her knees right there on the altar. I need a drink. I need three. And a cigarette. And a priest."

Giggles, nervous, thrilled, guilty, rippled through the group, champagne flutes clinking as they toasted the chaos.

In the corner, a man wearing a midnight-blue tux with a tiny silver serpent pin on the lapel leaned close to his wife, voice low and excited.

"That’s Devon Aldridge. Chief of Emergency Surgery at Blissville now."

His wife’s eyes went round as saucers, hand flying to her pearls.

Across the ballroom, women of every age, every marital status, could not stop looking at the doors Devon had vanished through.

Cheeks flushed rose and crimson, necks craning so hard earrings swung like pendulums, husbands suddenly invisible, forgotten.

A gorgeous redhead in liquid gold sequins laughed behind her champagne flute loud enough for her whole table to hear, voice husky with want.

"Poor Ethan. That’s not competition. That’s extinction-level event. I would fake my own death just to get mouth-to-mouth from Dr Aldridge."

"Hell, I would pay him. I would beg."

Laughter rolled, wild, free, guilty.

Champagne sprayed faint as someone snorted.

A married woman in emerald velvet leaned in close to her friend, voice low and breathy.

"I felt that man look at me for half a second and my panties disintegrated. My husband has been trying to find my clit for fifteen years. That man would find it in the dark with his tongue tied."

More giggles, louder, spreading like wildfire.

A cluster of younger women near the dessert table fanned themselves with programs, eyes shining. "He’s like... sex in a suit."

An older woman, silver bob perfect, diamonds heavy, smiled slow and wicked. "Girls, I am sixty-eight and my knees just gave out. That is the kind of man you leave your husband for and never look back."

The men tried to laugh it off, but their voices came strained, forced.

One banker in Armani muttered to his wife, "He’s just a doctor."

She replied, "He’s the reason doctors get groupies."

Ethan’s parents chased their son as he stormed off the dais, face black with fury, dragging Serena so fast her cathedral train snagged on a chair and ripped a four-inch tear in the lace, petals scattering.

"Ethan, slow down—"

"Not. Now. Dad."

Serena kept twisting to look back, veil slipping off one shoulder, eyes magnet-locked on the doors Devon had vanished through, breath catching, thighs pressing together faint under the gown.

Marianne scurried after her daughter, heels stabbing marble rapid-fire, hissing through a frozen smile, "Serena, cameras, darling, smile—"

But Serena’s final glance at the doors was pure molten hate and helpless, furious want braided so tight it hurt to watch.

Devon never moved from his spot halfway down the aisle for a long, long moment.

Hands slid slow and casual into coat pockets.

One hip cocked, weight relaxed, coat falling open to reveal the hard lines of chest and stomach beneath white shirt, the faint shadow of hair visible where buttons gaped, skin still flushed from the heat of the room, from the power he had just unleashed.

He surveyed the chaos he had birthed with the lazy satisfaction of an artist stepping back from a masterpiece still wet with paint, still dripping, still alive.

A slow deep breath expanded his chest, nostrils flaring faint with crushed roses, fear, lust, and champagne thick in the air, tasting it all on his tongue like victory.