Chapter 3 - The Altar of Ashes
The twenty-third of October was a flawless, sun-drenched Saturday.
The wedding venue was a breathtaking historic estate in Woodside, dripping in white wisteria and crystal. Two hundred of Silicon Valley's most elite power players were seated in the velvet chairs lining the aisle. The string quartet played a hauntingly beautiful melody as the heavy oak doors opened.
I did not wear a veil. I wanted to see everything with absolute clarity.
I walked down the aisle in a stunning, razor-sharp ivory gown. At the altar, Tristan stood in a custom Tom Ford tuxedo, beaming with the arrogant triumph of a man who believed he had successfully secured his billionaire lifestyle. In the third row, seated conspicuously close to the aisle, Tessa was already texting on her phone under her purse, bored by the formalities.
And sitting in the absolute front row, directly behind Tristan’s groomsmen, was Alexander Sterling. He caught my eye and offered a single, imperceptible nod. The trap was locked.
I reached the altar. I handed my bouquet to my maid of honor.
The officiant, a prominent local judge, cleared his throat. "We are gathered here today to witness the union of Tristan and Zoe. They have chosen to write their own vows." He smiled at Tristan. "Tristan, you may begin."
Tristan reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of thick parchment paper. He took a deep breath, putting on his best, most earnest performance. "Zoe. From the moment I met you, I knew my life would never be the same—"
"Stop," I said.
The single word echoed through the microphone clipped to the officiant's lapel. It was quiet, but it carried the lethal force of a gunshot.
Tristan froze, his charming smile faltering. "Zoe? What is it? Are you okay?"
I turned toward the massive, high-definition digital screens flanking the altar, which had been set up to display our romantic photo montage during the reception. I pulled a small remote from the hidden pocket of my gown and pressed the button.
The screens flared to life.
It wasn't a montage of our vacations. It was a massive, ten-foot-tall projection of Tristan’s secret social media account.
There was the photograph of Tessa sleeping in his Range Rover.
I can't marry her. But as compensation, I'll give you all my devotion.
The crowd gasped. A collective shockwave of pure, unadulterated horror rippled through the two hundred guests. Tessa shrieked, dropping her phone, her face turning a violent shade of white as she desperately tried to sink into her chair.
"Zoe!" Tristan panicked, lunging forward to grab the remote, his face twisted in sheer terror. "What is this?! Turn it off! It's a hack! It's fake!"
I pressed the button again. The screen shifted to the photograph of my engagement ring box, posted six months prior.
May you like
She still thinks the wedding is about love.
I stepped back, out of his reach, my voice echoing coldly through the lavish estate. "It's not fake, Tristan. It's the exact reason we are not getting married today. You thought my intelligence was confined to the laboratory. You forgot that a scientist's greatest strength is observing the data."
