Chapter 1 - The Altar of Truth
The gasps rippled through the cathedral like a tidal wave,
crashing against the marble pillars and the stained glass windows.
Jonathan’s face,
once a mask of arrogant perfection,
began to fracture into a thousand pieces of terror.
I reached for the hidden zipper of my designer gown,
the one he had chosen to make me look like a porcelain doll.
With one swift movement,
the heavy silk fell to the floor,
pooling around my feet like a discarded skin.
Underneath,
I wasn't wearing a slip or a corset.
I was wearing a simple,
black bodysuit that served as a canvas for the evidence.
The bruises were no longer hidden by makeup or long sleeves.
The purple and yellow marks on my ribs,
the fingerprint-shaped shadows on my upper arms,
and the healing laceration on my shoulder were now on full display.
The high-society guests,
who had spent the morning sipping champagne,
now choked on the very air they breathed.
Rosalind Duncan stood up,
her pearls trembling against her throat,
as her eyes darted from me to the cameras.
“This is a lie,”
she hissed,
her voice cracking through the silence.
“She is mentally unstable,
she did this to herself!”
I didn’t even look at her.
I kept my eyes locked on Jonathan,
whose hand was still suspended in the air where he had been holding mine.
The detectives moved down the center aisle,
their heavy boots echoing with the rhythm of impending justice.
My attorney,
Sarah Jenkins,
stepped forward with a digital tablet connected to the church’s projector system.
“If everyone could turn their attention to the screens,”
she said,
her voice calm and professional.
Suddenly,
the slideshow of our 'beautiful' engagement photos disappeared.
In their place,
high-resolution medical reports filled the screens.
There were X-rays of my fractured wrist from last December,
the one Jonathan told everyone I got from a fall on the ice.
There were audio recordings,
clear and terrifying,
of Jonathan screaming that I was nothing without him.
“You think you can leave?”
his voice boomed through the speakers of the chapel.
“I own the police,
I own the courts,
and I own you.”
The guests were frozen,
some shielding their eyes,
others recording the downfall on their phones.
The federal agent reached the altar,
ignoring the priest and the flower girls.
He looked at Jonathan with a cold,
unyielding stare.
“Jonathan Duncan,”
the agent said,
producing a pair of handcuffs.
“You are under arrest for domestic assault,
witness intimidation,
and several counts of financial fraud.”
But the real shock was yet to come.
As the woman in the back moved closer,
the color completely drained from Jonathan’s lips.
He stumbled back,
tripping over the train of my discarded dress.
“No,”
he whispered,
his voice barely audible.
“You’re dead.”
The woman stepped into the light,
removing her black veil.
She was older,
her face lined with scars that makeup couldn't hide,
but her eyes were identical to the woman in the portrait in Jonathan’s study.
She was Clara Duncan,
his first wife,
the woman the world believed had died in a tragic boating accident ten years ago.
She looked at him not with fear,
but with a searing,
righteous anger.
“I’m the ghost you couldn't bury deep enough,
Jonathan,”
she said.
May you like
The silence that followed was absolute,
broken only by the clicking of the handcuffs.
