Chapter 4 - The Wedding He Thought He Controlled
By the time Ryan entered the chapel, Madison was gone.
Michael stood near the back row pretending to check his phone.
I sat in my wheelchair facing the stained-glass window.
Ryan's expression was gentle.
Concerned.
Perfect.
“There you are.”
I turned.
“I told you I needed some time.”
“You did.”
He crouched beside me.
“I got worried.”
The word nearly made me smile.
“I'm okay.”
His eyes moved toward Michael.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hospital called me.”
Ryan looked back at me.
“Ready to go upstairs?”
I nodded.
He pushed my wheelchair himself.
One hand rested on my shoulder.
Possessive.
Tender.
To anyone passing us in the hallway, he looked like a devoted fiancé.
That afternoon, Ryan introduced the subject of the wedding.
“I've been thinking.”
I watched him from the hospital bed.
“About what?”
“Us.”
He took my hand.
“I don't want whoever did this to take our wedding away too.”
My stomach turned.
“What do you mean?”
“I want to go ahead.”
I let my eye widen.
“In seven days?”
“We can make accommodations.”
“Ryan, look at me.”
“I am.”
“My face is covered in bandages.”
“And I still love you.”
He delivered the line flawlessly.
“What will people say?”
“That we're stronger than this.”
There it was.
The real reason.
Public sympathy.
A wounded bride.
A devoted celebrity groom refusing to abandon her.
It wasn't a wedding.
It was the greatest publicity campaign of his career.
“I don't know if I can.”
Ryan squeezed my hand.
“You don't have to decide now.”
But we both knew I did.
“I'll do it.”
For the first time, genuine surprise appeared on his face.
“What?”
“I'll marry you.”
He stared.
Then smiled.
He leaned forward and kissed me gently.
“You have no idea how happy that makes me.”
I did.
It meant his plan was still alive.
And therefore so was mine.
Over the next five days, everyone played their part.
Ryan's team moved the ceremony from the original cathedral to the grand ballroom of an Indianapolis hotel, claiming the smaller environment would protect my recovery.
It wasn't smaller.
More than three hundred guests remained invited.
Press platforms were installed outside.
Two television crews received limited access.
The story spread everywhere.
INJURED BRIDE REFUSES TO LET ATTACK DESTROY FAIRY-TALE WEDDING
Ryan's album sales rose.
His streaming numbers increased.
Fans mailed cards.
Morning shows called our relationship inspiring.
Every headline made me more determined.
Meanwhile, Michael gathered evidence.
Bank transfers from Ryan's companies to Dr. Lawson.
Messages discussing my fertility schedule.
A payment routed to an intermediary three days before my attack.
The intermediary had a connection to the woman police were searching for.
Madison provided records showing Ryan had maintained a second residence near Nashville for almost four years.
Photographs.
Flight logs.
Private messages.
Proof of Leo's paternity.
None of it alone proved everything.
Together, it told a story.
But we needed Ryan's voice.
That became my job.
Two nights before the wedding, Ryan visited my hospital room alone.
I had already been discharged technically, but arrangements had been made for me to remain under observation.
A tiny recording device sat beneath the blanket.
“Are you afraid?” I asked him.
“Of the wedding?”
“Of everything.”
He poured water into a glass.
“No.”
“I am.”
“That makes sense.”
“What if I never look the same?”
Ryan sat beside me.
“I told you. It doesn't matter.”
“What if you stop loving me?”
“I won't.”
“What if I can't have children?”
His hand stopped.
Just briefly.
I looked away as though ashamed.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“For failing.”
The word nearly choked me.
Ryan leaned closer.
“You didn't fail.”
“Three pregnancies.”
“Grace.”
“Sometimes I wonder why.”
He studied me.
I could almost see the calculation.
“How much do you remember from before the attack?”
The question came too casually.
“Not much.”
“Nothing unusual?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed.
I continued.
“Dr. Lawson called.”
Ryan's face didn't move.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“What did he want?”
“I don't know. I was asleep.”
Ryan stood.
“I'll handle it.”
“Why?”
“He's probably checking on you.”
“Then why can't I call him?”
“You need rest.”
I lowered my head.
“Okay.”
Ryan relaxed again.
Too easy.
I needed more.
“Maybe after the wedding we could try again.”
His expression sharpened.
“For a baby.”
“Grace—”
“I know you said we should stop.”
“Your body has been through enough.”
“What if Lawson changes the medication?”
Ryan's eyes stayed on me.
“It won't help.”
“How do you know?”
Silence.
“Ryan?”
He looked toward the door.
Then back to me.
“Because sometimes things happen for a reason.”
My pulse accelerated.
“What reason?”
He touched my face carefully near the bandage.
“The life we have works.”
“Without children?”
“Yes.”
“But you always said you wanted them.”
“I changed.”
I almost said Leo's name.
Almost.
Instead I whispered, “Maybe I should see another doctor.”
Ryan's expression hardened.
For half a second, the mask disappeared.
“No.”
One word.
Too quick.
Too strong.
“Why not?”
“Because Lawson knows your history.”
“Maybe that's the problem.”
Ryan stood.
“You're exhausted.”
He leaned down.
“We'll talk tomorrow.”
Not enough.
But something.
After he left, Michael entered.
“Did you get it?”
I handed him the recorder.
“Not everything.”
He listened.
When Ryan's voice said No after I mentioned another doctor, Michael nodded.
“It helps.”
“It won't destroy him.”
“No.”
“Then we need the wedding.”
The night before the ceremony, an attorney Michael trusted came to see me.
She reviewed the alternate prenuptial documents Madison had warned about.
The papers were horrifying.
If I were deemed temporarily mentally or medically incapacitated after marriage, Ryan could assume authority over several joint financial entities.
One clause involved my charitable foundation.
Another involved image rights.
“They can't force you to sign this,” the attorney said.
“What if I'm medicated?”
“That would make it challengeable.”
“Challengeable isn't impossible.”
“No.”
I stared at the papers.
“When was this drafted?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Before the attack.
Ryan had planned everything.
The next morning, I woke before sunrise.
Wedding day.
My bandages had been reduced but still covered much of the damaged side of my face.
A stylist helped arrange my hair.
The original wedding gown had been damaged during the attack, so another ivory gown had been altered quickly.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
For the first time since the attack, I didn't look away.
The right side of my face was swollen.
Red.
Marked.
The doctors didn't yet know how much scarring would remain.
But the woman staring back at me was still there.
Not Ryan's fiancée.
Not America's tragic bride.
Me.
Michael entered quietly.
“Everything's ready.”
“Madison?”
“Here.”
“Police?”
“Waiting for evidence strong enough to move.”
“Lawyer?”
“Front row.”
“And the audio?”
“Connected.”
I took a long breath.
“Then let's get married.”
Michael looked alarmed.
“That isn't funny.”
“It wasn't a joke.”
I stood.
“Ryan wants a wedding.”
I looked at my reflection one last time.
“Let's give him one he'll never forget.”
An hour later, the ballroom doors opened.
Three hundred guests stood.
Cameras turned.
Ryan waited at the altar in a black tuxedo, looking exactly like the man millions of women believed wrote songs about eternal love.
Music swelled.
I walked toward him.
Step by step.
He smiled.
I smiled back.
And beneath my bouquet, hidden from every camera, my thumb rested on a small remote control.
One button.
That was all it would take.
But before I reached Ryan, a woman suddenly stepped from the crowd.
It was someone I recognized immediately.
May you like
Dr. Lawson's wife.
And the moment she looked at me, I knew the wedding plan had just changed again.
