Chapter 2 - The Black Maybach
The heavy oak doors of Saint Jude’s Cathedral swung open, spilling bright mid-afternoon sunlight onto the white marble steps outside.
Dozens of paparazzi and news reporters who had been tipped off by Camille Vale to film my public disgrace stood waiting with flashing cameras. But as we emerged onto the steps, the flashbulbs didn't catch a weeping, broken bride.
They caught Lucian Moretti holding me against his ribs, his long charcoal coat draped over my bare shoulders, his body shielding me from the press like an impenetrable wall.
Four black SUV escorts were parked at the curb, their doors held open by men in dark suits with silver pins on their lapels.
Behind us, Adrian rushed out onto the cathedral steps, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, his face flushed red with rage and humiliation.
“Elena! Stop!” Adrian yelled, his voice cracking as the reporters spun around to face him. “You can't walk away with him! You signed the prenuptial draft! You owe my family three hundred thousand dollars for the venue expenses!”
Lucian stopped at the bottom of the steps. He slowly turned his head, looking back up at Adrian with an expression of mild, amused contempt.
“Send the invoice to my desk, Adrian,” Lucian called back softly. “My legal department enjoys reading fairy tales before lunch.”
The reporters went wild, their camera shutters clicking continuously as Lucian guided me into the back of a custom black Maybach. The heavy leather door clicked shut, cutting off the noise, the flashes, and the chaos of the street in an instant.
The interior of the Maybach was quiet, scented with expensive leather, sandalwood, and dark espresso.
I sat back against the soft leather, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I felt lightheaded. The adrenaline that had sustained me at the altar began to clear, leaving a cold, trembling exhaustion in its place.
Lucian sat across from me, pouring two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal tumbler from the built-in bar. He didn't rush me. He didn't press me for answers. He simply offered me the glass.
“Drink, Elena,” he said quietly. “It helps with the shock.”
I took the glass with trembling hands, swallowing a small sip. The liquid burned down my throat, grounding me instantly.
I looked at him—really looked at him for the first time. Lucian Moretti was thirty-four years old, the undisputed head of the Moretti Syndicate and the owner of Moretti International Shipping. He was a man whose name made politicians whisper and corporate executives sweat.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, my voice raw. “You don't know me, Lucian. We’ve met three times at charity galas.”
Lucian leaned back, crossing his long legs, his dark eyes studying every inch of my face with ruthless intensity.
“I know more about you than you think, Elena Vance,” Lucian replied softly. “I know your father was an honorable man who was betrayed by his business partners. I know your accounting firm was sabotaged. And I know you hold the key to destroying the Vale family.”
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He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, his gaze locking onto mine.
“Adrian thought he was trapping a lamb,” Lucian whispered. “He doesn't realize he just handed the wolf a knife.”
