Chapter 4 - The Altar of Betrayal
The organ of St. Catherine’s Chapel swelled with the majestic chords of Purcell’s *Trumpet Voluntary*.
The double doors of the cathedral swung wide, revealing a cavernous nave packed with two hundred of New York’s wealthiest elite. Hedge fund billionaires, real estate moguls, socialites, and city council members filled the polished oak pews, their heads turning in unison to watch me take my first step down the aisle.
Beside me, my father offered his arm. His face was gray, his skin beaded with a sheen of cold sweat. Every few seconds, his eyes darted toward the shadowy corners of the chapel, terrified that Roman Moretti’s enforcers were already waiting in the wings.
"Arya," he muttered under his breath through a rigid, forced smile, "Moretti... did he actually sign?"
"Keep walking, Father," I whispered, not looking at him. "And smile. The press is taking photos."
At the end of the long, white-carpeted aisle stood Damian Lockwood.
He looked undeniably handsome. His blond hair was immaculately styled, his broad shoulders filling out the tailored tuxedo, an easy, confident grin gracing his lips. To the world, he looked like a prince waiting for his bride. To me, he looked like a hollow, parasitic shell whose expiration date had just arrived.
Beside him stood his best man, and on the opposite side stood Vivian, clutching her bouquet of white calla lilies, her eyes sparkling with an unbearable, vindictive triumph.
We reached the foot of the altar. My father placed my hand in Damian’s, his fingers trembling so noticeably that Damian shot him a brief, confused frown.
"You look breathtaking, Arya," Damian murmured, leaning in to brush a kiss against my cheek. His breath carried the faint trace of scotch and mint.
I pulled back just an inch, offering nothing in return.
The priest began the standard liturgy. *“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses...”*
I didn't hear a word of the sermon. My focus was locked on the back of the cathedral.
There, sitting alone in the very last pew beneath the stained-glass window depicting Saint Michael casting down Lucifer, was Roman Moretti.
He sat with an ankle resting casually on his opposite knee, his dark overcoat draped over his shoulders, his arms resting along the back of the pew. He wasn't hiding. He wasn't lurking. He was watching the proceedings with the cold, amused detachment of a man watching a play whose tragic ending he had personally written.
The priest cleared his throat. *“We now come to the vows. Damian, do you take this woman—”*
"Wait," Damian interrupted suddenly.
A collective murmur swept through the congregation. The priest froze, his Bible hovering in mid-air.
Damian let go of my hands and turned toward the pews, taking a theatrical half-step backward. His handsome face twisted into an expression of profound, agonizing remorse—an Oscar-worthy performance designed to paint himself as the tragic hero of an impossible love story.
"I can't do this," Damian said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent, cavernous church. "I'm sorry. I cannot stand before God and lie to this congregation, and most of all, I cannot lie to Arya."
Whispers erupted like a flock of startled crows. Society matriarchs gasped, clutching their pearls; cell phones were already being surreptitiously angled to record the spectacle.
My father took a frantic step forward. "Damian, what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm doing the right thing, Edward!" Damian declared, his voice ringing with righteous passion. He turned his gaze toward Vivian, whose eyes filled with dramatic, rehearsed tears. "For months, I’ve tried to deny what’s in my heart. I tried to do the honorable thing, to fulfill an arrangement that was expected of me. But love cannot be dictated by contracts or expectations."
He reached out his hand toward Vivian.
Vivian dropped her bouquet. The white lilies scattered across the altar steps as she stepped forward, throwing herself into Damian’s arms.
Right there, at the foot of the high altar, in front of two hundred of the most influential people in New York, Damian wrapped his arms around my half-sister and kissed her passionately on the mouth.
Gasps of pure shock echoed off the vaulted stone ceilings. Flashbulbs went off in the gallery.
When Damian finally pulled away, his chest heaving, he looked at me with an infuriating mixture of pity and condescension.
"I'm sorry, Arya," Damian said, loud enough for the first three rows to hear. "I know this hurts. But you have always been so cold, so focused on business, so emotionally distant. Vivian showed me what true passion feels like. If you really loved me, you’d want me to be happy. Don't be selfish. Don't make a scene."
*Don't be selfish.*
I stood entirely still in the center of the altar, feeling the burning glare of two hundred pairs of eyes pitying me, mocking me, waiting for me to shatter into hysterics.
Vivian buried her face in Damian’s chest, hiding a vicious, victorious smile against his lapel.
Then, from the very back of the chapel, the heavy oak doors clicked shut.
The sound of slow, rhythmic clapping echoed through the stunned silence.
*Clap. Clap. Clap.*
Every head in the church whipped toward the back row.
Damian frowned, his smug expression faltering as he strained his eyes to see through the dim, vaulted light. "Who is that? Security, remove that man!"
The clapping stopped.
Roman Moretti stood up.
He slowly buttoned his black jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and stepped out into the center aisle. He walked with a smooth, terrifying grace, every stride measured, every movement radiating absolute, uncontested lethality. Four massive men in dark coats stepped through the side vestibules, silently blocking every single exit from the sanctuary.
The whispers in the church didn't just stop—the air was sucked clean out of the room.
Several prominent executives in the front rows turned pale as sheets, instinctively pulling their wives back into the pews. They recognized the Butcher of Manhattan.
Damian’s arrogant smile vanished instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, paralyzing terror.
"Roman?" Damian whispered, his voice cracking like dry wood. "Mr... Mr. Moretti? What are you doing here?"
Roman didn't answer him right away. He walked down the center aisle, his polished leather shoes clicking softly against the marble floor, until he reached the foot of the altar. He completely ignored Vivian, who had shrunk behind Damian’s arm, and stopped just two paces away from Damian.
Roman looked at Damian’s hand, which was still resting protectively on Vivian’s shoulder.
Then, his voice cutting through the frozen silence like an executioner’s blade, Roman spoke:
May you like
"Take your hands off my wife."
***
