Chapter 6— Wedding bells, Wedding bells

Chapter 6— Wedding bells, Wedding bells.

Back to the present...

The murmurs began as whispers—soon the murmurs were as loud as vapour feeling the stillness of the grand auditorium. Jaxon Hawthorne, stood alone at the altar, clenching his jaw as the noise swelled, drowning out the organ's soft hum. He loathed weddings, especially this one.

From his position, he could see the restless guests shifting in their seats. There were not many family members seated. Even the ones seated were waiting for something—some scandal— to chew them off. It infuriated him that they were here at all, smug and entertained by the delay. 

Friends? He had none of those. The people seated were mostly business associates his father had gone the extra length to invite. All of them vultures circling a spectacle. They all had one thing to say at that moment and he knew what it was, unfortunately.

The bride was late.

Seated at the front pew beside Benedict and Dorothea Jones’ empty seats, his parents remained composed—his father, Cillian Hawthorne, a statue, as he had always been, with his blank facial expression and dead eyes, while his mother, Naomi Hawthorne, draped in an opulent gold dress that nearly stole the attention meant for the absent bride. He could feel her gaze cutting through him like a blade as she whispered furiously to his father.

Jaxon checked his wristwatch. Another five minutes gone. Where is Penelope?

The grand door at the back creaked open, and the crowd collectively turned, anticipation thick in the air. A man in a black suit entered, shoulders squared, and briskly walked to his father. Not the bride. A guard.

The murmurs returned—with louder, malicious murmurs of speculation.

“She’s run away.” A woman at the front was saying.

“The Jones girl’s missing?” Another one said.

“Leaving him at the altar. Such a nasty thing to do.”

The words irritated Jaxon to no end, but his expression remained stoic. He would not let these vultures see him bleed. His bride could walk—or run—for all he cared. This arrangement had been born of convenience, not love.

His mother finally rose, gliding toward him like a queen surveying her kingdom. “Jaxon,” she whispered with that smooth, ever-patronizing tone she used anytime she was about to whine. Her jewel covered hand rose to smoothen his lapel, even though it needed no fixing. “I told you this was a bad idea. That girl’s family is unstable.” She tutted softly. “We’ll call it off. Move on to someone worthy of you.”

 If she thought he was ready to fall back to her endless matchmaking. Then she thought wrong. Jaxon’s eyes narrowed, cutting through his mother’s condescension. Not now.

Naomi paused, her mouth half open, as the organists began to play louder than they had been playing. A slow, haunting melody poured out across the room, silencing the crowd. Naomi blinked in confusion before recovering, offering him a nervous smile. Even she didn’t know what was happening.

Jaxon turned toward the grand doors just as they groaned open.

A sharp hush fell over the room.

There, framed by the golden light spilling in, stood his bride. The air seemed to be still, trapping every breath in the room. Her dress was silver and elegant—crystal beadwork glinting under the chandeliers like frost kissed by the sun. The bodice hugged her slender form before cascading into a sea of fabric that trailed behind her.

But it wasn’t the dress that gripped Jaxon’s attention. It was her height. Her frame. 

It wasn't right. It was wrong.

Penelope had always been taller, broader, with refined edges. The woman standing at the door now was delicate. The thick veil obscured her face completely, shrouding her identity in mystery, but Jaxon’s instincts flared like an alarm. 

Who is this? He thought.

Benedict Jones—Penelope’s father—held her arm with a grip so tight it seemed like he feared she’d bolt. His expression, too, gave nothing away, save for the twitch at his jaw. As though he knew he was handing over a time bomb.

Jaxon’s suspicion hardened into a knot of anger. They were planning to humiliate him but he wouldn't let them win.

The congregation rose from their seats as the choir began to hum, and the bride stepped forward. Her steps and Benedict matched the rhythm of the music, slow and measured, but the faintest tremor of her body betrayed her nerves. 

Step by step, she advanced—her dress trailing behind her like mist over the blood-red carpet.

Jaxon’s heart beat like a war drum in his chest, his gaze was fixed on her like she would vanish before his eyes.

By the time she reached him, the surrealness of her appearance had the entire room enraptured.

Benedict’s hand visibly shook as he handed the bride off to Jaxon. It took everything in Jaxon not to rip the veil off right then and there. Instead, he gripped her hand, noting the cold sweat against her palm. She was trembling.

The officiant cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved…”

Jaxon tuned him out, his mind whirling. This woman—whoever she was—had no place here. This was deception, a farce. And yet, he had no choice but to play along.

The ceremony dragged on, with them exchanging reluctant “I do’s” much to Benedict and Dorothea’s relief. When the officiant instructed Jaxon to lift the veil, his heart slowed.

The moment of truth.

Jaxon’s hands were steady as he reached for the delicate fabric. A hush descended over the room as if the very walls were holding their breath. He lifted the veil, the silk whispering against his fingers, and revealed—

Her.

Her.

Kallista Jones.

The woman who had bumped into him weeks ago spilled coffee down his custom coat and shirt. The woman who’d lashed out when he’d pushed her away. The same fiery glare he remembered was now staring back at him—her lips pressed into a tight, anxious line.

Kallista Jones. His fiancée’s younger sister.

Jaxon’s expression darkened, his voice low and lethal, meant for her ears alone.

“You.”

Her eyes widened, her breath hitching as she stumbled backward just slightly, the force of the venom in his voice had her freezing on the spot.

The guests clapped politely, oblivious to the storm raging at the altar.

Jaxon didn’t move, his fists clenching at his sides. This wasn’t just a mistake—it was an insult. And Kallista, standing in front of him, looked even more lost than he felt.

The choir began to sing again, but all Kallista could hear was roaring in her ears.