The grand ballroom was packed with over two hundred guests from high society. Gold chandeliers hung from the soaring ceilings, throwing warm light over rows of white orchids and elegant guests in tuxedos and evening gowns. At the front of the altar stood Mark Vance.
He looked immaculate again. His hair was combed back, his dark blue suit adjusted, and a charming, apologetic smile rested on his lips. Beside him, his mother Victoria sat in the front row, fanning herself with a gold lace program, looking victorious.
Groom’s Guest: They say the bride had a minor panic attack in the dressing room, but everything is fine now.
Second Guest: Oh, wedding jitters! Mark is such a patient man to wait for her like this.
The organ music suddenly shifted, playing the slow, majestic notes of the traditional wedding march. The double oak doors at the back of the chapel swung open slowly.
Mark adjusted his tie, standing taller, preparing his best emotional expression. But as the figure stepped through the threshold, a low murmur rippled through the crowd of two hundred people like a sudden wave.
Sarah was not wearing her veil. Her hand held no flowers. She walked alone down the white carpeted aisle, her face completely free of makeup, revealing the raw red tears and bruised cheek where Mark had slammed the vanity door against her shoulder. And around her left wrist, wrapped tightly over her skin, was a clear medical bandage showing deep, fresh purple finger marks.
Victoria: What is she doing?! What is wrong with her dress?
Mark: Sarah... what are you doing? Where are your flowers?
Sarah kept her chin held high, walking with a cold, absolute grace. Behind her, her father, Thomas Miller, stood up from his front-row seat, his face pale with rising fury as he saw the bruises on his daughter's wrist.
Thomas: Sarah! Who did that to your arm?!
Sarah: Ask the groom, Dad.
Mark took a step forward, his voice dropping into a desperate, fake whisper as he reached out his hands toward her.
Mark: Sarah, baby, please... why didn't you put on your veil? The photographer is shooting live!
Sarah: Don't touch me, Mark.
Mark: Sweetheart, we talked about this! I was stressed about Emily, I apologized! Let's just finish the ceremony and we can talk privately!
Sarah: You don't want a wife, Mark. You want a key to a trust fund.
The entire room went dead silent. The minister lowered his Bible, looking back and forth between the bride and groom in shock.
Mark: What are you talking about? She's hysterical, everyone! The wedding stress was too much for her!
Sarah: I have a quick announcement before we take our vows, everyone. If you could all look at the main presentation screens on the walls.
Victoria: Turn those screens off! Security, turn the projectors off right now!
Sarah: Press play, Jess.
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