Chapter 6 - The Resurrected Bride
The color did not just leave Adrian’s face; it seemed to be violently sucked out of his entire body. His eyes widened into round, horrified circles of raw terror. His jaw dropped open, his lips parting in a soundless, strangled gasp. He staggered backward two steps, colliding with the podium of the officiating pastor.
"Adrian?" Colleen whispered, stepping forward to catch his elbow. "What's wrong with—"
Colleen turned her head toward the aisle.
The breath left her lungs in a horrific, choked shriek that echoed off the vaulted rafters of the chapel. She dropped her purse. The contents scattered across the marble floor—compact powder, lipsticks, and an envelope containing the wedding fee checks.
"No," Colleen whimpered, pressing both hands against her temples. "No, no, no... God, no..."
"Good afternoon, Adrian," my voice rang out across the silent sanctuary, amplified by the high acoustic arches of the ceiling. "You look remarkably healthy for a man who burned to death in a Ford Explorer ninety days ago."
A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the three hundred high-society guests. People began standing up in their seats, craning their necks to see what was happening.
"Meredith..." Adrian croaked, his voice cracking like dry wood. He raised a trembling hand to his collar, desperately pulling at his bow tie as if he were choking on the very fabric. "You're... you're not supposed to be here."
"I know," I replied, walking forward with slow, deliberate steps until I stood at the bottom of the altar steps, looking up at him. "I was supposed to be at home, crying over your memorial plaque. I was supposed to be working eighty hours a week trying to pay off the caterer, the venue, and the honeymoon tickets you booked under my name before you faked your demise."
I set the heavy funeral wreath right at the foot of the altar.
In the center of the wreath was a framed photograph—the smiling portrait from his own obituary.
"Who the hell are you?!" a booming voice roared from the front pew.
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Arthur Vance, Vanessa’s imposing, silver-haired billionaire father, stood up, his face dark with fury. Two private security guards stepped out from the side wings, their hands resting near their jacket holsters. "What is the meaning of this circus? Where is my daughter?!"
"Your daughter is safe in the bridal suite, Mr. Vance," I turned and addressed the patriarch with absolute composure. "She decided she didn't want to marry a dead man wanted by the federal government for grand larceny and wire fraud."
