The Wedding Day

Few minutes before the wedding…

The chapel gleamed with grandeur, its tall stained-glass windows casting soft rays of colored light across the white-marble floors. Every seat was filled with distinguished guests—faces adorned with polite smiles, eyes glittering with curiosity or judgment. Outside, photographers clicked relentlessly, capturing the wedding of the season.

Rosita stood in a quiet corner of the preparation room, the weight of her gown matched only by the weight pressing against her chest. The diamond-studded fabric shimmered with every movement, hugging her frame like it had been made just for her. She looked like a dream. But inside, she felt like a prisoner walking to her sentence.

Her fingers trembled as she adjusted her veil. Her heart thumped loudly against her ribcage, not from excitement, but from dread. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to walk down that aisle toward a man she barely knew—no matter how confusingly drawn to him she had become.

And then, the door creaked open.

Peter stepped in, dressed in his full clerical robe, his Bible clutched in one hand. His face, stern as ever, seemed carved from stone. His eyes scanned her coldly, without pride, without warmth.

“You look like one of those women on the streets,” he said flatly, no greeting, no affection.

Rosita didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened. She had prepared herself for this—for his disdain.

“Thank you for the compliment,” she replied evenly.

Peter’s face hardened further. “Don’t get smart with me, Rosita. You know why you’re here. You’re lucky I even found a man willing to take you after what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” she repeated, her voice sharpening. “You mean the lies Rebekah told you—the stories she spun just to poison you against me?”

“Don’t bring your sister into this.”

“She is the reason you hate me!” Rosita snapped, stepping forward, fire blazing behind her eyes. “She’s the one who told you I defiled myself. She’s the one who made you believe I was some disgrace. And you—you just swallowed her lies and threw me away like garbage!”

He raised his hand, fury bubbling in his eyes. “Watch your tongue, Rosita—”

Before the slap could land, a hand shot out and caught his wrist mid-air.

Sebastian.

He stood between them now, tall and unyielding, eyes dark with rage. His grip on Peter’s wrist was firm but controlled.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sebastian said coldly, his voice low but sharp like a blade.

Peter tried to pull away, but Sebastian didn’t let go immediately.

“This is your daughter,” Sebastian said. “And this is her wedding day. You don’t get to lay a hand on her.”

“You don’t understand,” Peter hissed. “This girl—she shamed our name, she spat on everything I stood for. She deserves—”

“She deserves better than being treated like dirt by the one person who should’ve protected her.” Sebastian finally released his wrist, taking a slow step closer to Rosita, shielding her with his body.

She was still trembling—half in shock, half in relief.

Sebastian turned his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder. “Give us a moment, Peter.”

Peter hesitated, anger boiling in his stare. But eventually, he straightened his robe, muttered a quiet curse under his breath, and stormed out of the room.

Rosita exhaled shakily.

Sebastian turned to her slowly. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, though her voice wavered. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did.” He paused, brushing a stray curl from her cheek with his thumb. “You’re not alone anymore, Rosita. Not while I’m here.”

Her eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, the chaos melted. There was still tension between them, still anger and confusion—but in this moment, there was also something else. A silent promise.

Outside the doors, the music began to play—the beginning of the bridal march.

Sebastian reached out and gently took her hand.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Let’s go get married.”