Chapter 2 The Dead Bride Crashes the Wedding

# Chapter 2 — The Dead Bride Crashes the Wedding

Morning light filtered through the cathedral's stained glass, casting kaleidoscope patterns across my wedding gown. A Vera Wang original, I'd been told, with hand-sewn pearls and a train that required three attendants to manage. Standing in the bridal suite, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror.

"Five minutes, Ms. Cross," the wedding planner—a severe woman named Helena—announced, checking her clipboard. She'd been calling me Ms. Cross for weeks now, a premature adoption of my soon-to-be name that still made me flinch.

"It's still Mitchell until I say 'I do,'" I reminded her, adjusting the diamond earrings that felt heavy on my lobes.

Helena's tight smile didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. My apologies."

As she left, Damien's younger sister Vivian slipped in, looking ethereal in her bridesmaid gown. Unlike most of Damien's family who regarded me with thinly veiled suspicion, Vivian had shown me genuine kindness.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, helping me adjust my veil.

"Like I'm about to commit the most elaborate fraud of the century."

Vivian laughed, but quickly sobered. "About that shoe last night... did Damien say anything more?"

I shook my head. After the package arrived, Damien had whisked it away, instructing security to tighten their perimeter. He'd been tight-lipped, his only reassurance a terse "I'll handle it."

"He's protecting you," Vivian said, reading my thoughts. "In his own rigid, emotionally constipated way."

"Is he?" I glanced at her. "Or is he protecting the merger?"

Vivian squeezed my hand. "Maybe both. Maybe something else entirely." She lowered her voice. "Damien wasn't himself after Iris died. None of us really knew what happened between them toward the end. But when he looks at you..." She trailed off.

"What?" I pressed.

"It's different. More present somehow. With Iris, he always seemed... I don't know, like he was performing." She straightened my veil one final time. "Ready?"

I wasn't. Not even close. But I nodded anyway.

The cathedral was packed with New York's elite—politicians, celebrities, business magnates—all gathered to witness the union of two powerful families. As Wagner's traditional wedding march began, I took my first step down the aisle.

Damien waited at the altar, impossibly handsome in his tuxedo. For a moment, our eyes locked, and something passed between us—not love, but a shared conspiracy, a mutual understanding of the charade we were about to solidify.

The ceremony proceeded with practiced precision. The priest spoke of love and commitment, words that echoed hollowly in the space between Damien and me. When it came time for the vows, Damien took my hands, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"I, Damien Alexander Cross, take you—"

The cathedral doors slammed open with a thunderous boom.

"Stop this farce immediately!"

Every head turned. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the afternoon sun, was a woman in a black wedding dress, her face obscured by a dark veil.

"Who dares interrupt this sacred ceremony?" the priest demanded, but his voice quavered.

The woman strode down the aisle, her movements fluid and purposeful. "I dare," she said, her voice carrying through the stunned silence. "I, Iris Cross."

A collective gasp rippled through the guests. Beside me, Damien had gone rigid, his face ashen.

The woman reached the altar and slowly lifted her veil. The face beneath was like looking into a distorted mirror—my features, but sharper, more refined, framed by professionally highlighted hair. Her eyes, unlike mine, were a striking emerald green, now gleaming with malice.

"Surprised to see me, darling?" she purred, addressing Damien before turning to me. "Hello, sister. Enjoying my life?"

My mind reeled. Sister? This couldn't be happening.

"Iris is dead," Damien finally spoke, his voice barely controlled. "I identified the body myself."

"Did you?" Iris—or the woman claiming to be her—circled us like a predator. "Or did you see what I wanted you to see? A convenient accident, a charred corpse, a grieving fiancé ready to find my replacement." She laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "And what a replacement you found. My own flesh and blood."

"I don't have a sister," I managed to say, though my voice sounded distant to my own ears.

"Of course you don't remember me, Avery. We were separated when you were just a baby. But I never forgot you." She reached out to touch my cheek, and I flinched away. "Such a touching reunion, don't you think? The long-lost sisters, the abandoned bride. It's almost Shakespearean."

Security guards began moving toward her, but she held up a hand. "I wouldn't," she warned. "Not unless you want certain truths about the Cross family made public today."

Damien stepped forward, placing himself slightly in front of me. The protective gesture surprised me. "What do you want, Iris?"

"Want? I want what's mine." Her gaze flicked between us. "My fiancé, my fortune, my life." She focused on me with burning intensity. "I engineered that car accident so perfectly. Found a body that would pass for mine. All so you, dear sister, could step in and fulfill the cursed marriage contract in my place."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded.

"The Cross marriage curse," she said, as if explaining to a child. "Every Cross bride for three generations has died within a year of marriage. I wasn't about to be next."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Damien's mother, Juliette, stood up from the front pew, her aristocratic face twisted with fury. "That's enough! Security, remove this impostor immediately!"

"Am I an impostor, Juliette?" Iris challenged. "Or are you afraid I'll reveal how you've known about Avery all along? How you separated the twins at birth because the fortune could only go to one heir?"

Juliette blanched. Beside her, Damien's father Victor remained stone-faced, but I could see a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"This is madness," Damien said, but there was a tremor in his voice. He turned to me, and for the first time since I'd known him, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.

Iris clapped her hands in mock delight. "Oh, look at him, Avery! He's remembering now, isn't he? Remembering that night in the car, when I told him everything just before I pushed him over that cliff? He survived, of course. The Cross men always survive."

Damien's face contorted. "You... you tried to kill me."

"And now you're hallucinating," Iris sneered. "Poor, unstable Damien. Always mixing up his medications."

But I saw it then—the flash of recognition in Damien's eyes, memories struggling to surface through whatever fog had been clouding them.

"Today isn't your wedding day, sister," Iris announced, addressing me again. "It's your funeral."

She reached into the folds of her black dress. Security rushed forward, but too late. The shot rang out, echoing through the cathedral. I braced for pain, for darkness, but instead felt Damien's weight against me as he shoved me aside, taking the bullet in his shoulder.

Chaos erupted. Guests screamed and fled for the exits. Security tackled Iris to the ground. Through the pandemonium, I crawled to Damien, pressing my hands against his bleeding shoulder.

"Why?" I demanded, tears blurring my vision. "Why would you do that?"

His eyes, clear despite the pain, locked onto mine. "Because you're real," he whispered. "And she never was."

As paramedics rushed in and police handcuffed a screaming Iris, she managed one final message to me: "I died because you lived," she hissed as they dragged her away. "Now it's your turn to die."

In the ambulance, clutching Damien's hand as he drifted in and out of consciousness, I realized with startling clarity that our pretend marriage had just become very, very real—and potentially lethal.

"Stay with me," I whispered to him, not sure why it suddenly mattered so much that he did.

His fingers tightened around mine. "Always," he murmured, and for the first time since this charade began, I believed him.