Chapter 2 - The Walk of Defiance
"What am I doing?" Nadine’s voice was neither trembling nor loud, but in the echoing expanse of Saint Jude’s Cathedral, it carried like thunder. "I am sparing myself a lifetime of choking on your disrespect."
Grant’s immaculate jaw hardened. He caught her forearm, his grip tightening with calculated restraint—firm enough to hurt, subtle enough that the cameras wouldn't notice. "Lower your voice, Nadine. Think about your father. Think about the Sterling line of credit. You walk down that aisle alone, and by five o'clock today, your family’s firm is in receivership."
Nadine looked down at his manicured fingers digging into her bare skin. For three years, Grant had weaponized her insecurities. He had picked at her weight like loose thread, whispering that she was lucky he loved her despite her curves, that society women starved themselves for a reason, that her softness was an indulgence he generously tolerated. And she had swallowed every barb, mistaking his cold possession for safety.
She met his pale blue eyes and pulled her arm back with sudden, crushing force. Grant stumbled back half a step, shocked by her physical power.
"Let it burn," Nadine said clearly. "My father can file for bankruptcy. But I will not file for bankruptcy of my soul."
She turned her back on him.
A collective gasp rippled across the three hundred guests. Pearls were clutched; champagne flutes wobbled on silver trays. In the front row, Camille’s smug, doll-like smile froze into an uncertain grimace. Nadine didn’t rush. She lifted the heavy train of her ivory satin gown, squaring her broad, elegant shoulders.
She walked past Camille without sparing her a second glance. Camille wasn’t a prize; she was simply Grant’s mirrored reflection—shallow, empty, and cheap.
"Nadine! Stop right now!" Grant hissed from the altar, his polished facade cracking as red patches bloomed along his neck. "If you step outside those doors, you are nothing!"
Nadine didn't flinch. Her white heels clicked rhythmically against the marble floor. Every step felt lighter, as if she were shedding years of poison. She was halfway down the endless aisle when she heard the heavy sound of oak shifting at the back of the cathedral.
Someone was standing up.
Not to stop her. Not to scold her.
A tall, broad figure stepped out from the shadowy back row into the shaft of stained-glass sunlight. He stood nearly six-foot-four, built like a fortress, wearing a bespoke midnight-black charcoal suit that screamed old blood and untouchable wealth.
It was Roman Thorne.
The room went dead silent. Even Grant’s desperate calls choked in his throat. Roman Thorne was not a society gentleman; he was the apex predator of the city’s underground empire, a man whose name was never spoken above a whisper in polite company. Lenders didn't threaten Roman Thorne. Governors asked his permission to run.
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And right now, those deadly, obsidian eyes weren't looking at the disgraced groom. They were locked entirely on Nadine.
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