Chapter 7 - The Veil of Gold on Live Television
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The towering oak doors at the back of the cathedral swung open.
The entire congregation gasped in unison.
Walking down the crimson carpet, flanked by Dr. Julian Bennett and Gabriel Miller, was me.
I wore an exquisite, hand-embroidered white silk gown that swept the marble floor like liquid light. Covering my head and face was the heavy golden veil, completely obscuring my features from the cameras and the weeping guests.
Christian stood at the altar, wiping a theatrical tear from his eye, looking every inch the devoted, grieving martyr.
As I reached the altar steps, Julian placed my hand into Christian’s palm.
Christian’s fingers tightened around mine—the same practiced, cold grip he had used in the hospital room.
“You look breathtaking, my love,” Christian whispered into the microphone clipped to his lapel, his voice trembling with manufactured emotion so every television viewer could hear. “No matter what tragedy has stolen from your beauty, my soul belongs to you forever.”
The minister cleared his throat. “We are gathered here before God and these witnesses to unite Christian and Genevieve in holy matrimony. If any person can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.”
The vaulted cathedral went dead silent.
Christian smiled warmly, turning to face me. “Lift the veil, Genevieve. Let the world see that our love needs no hiding.”
He reached his hands forward to lift the golden lace.
I stepped back one pace, avoiding his touch.
With my own steady, unhurried hands, I took the edges of the golden veil and tossed it back over my shoulders.
The breath was sucked out of six hundred people at once.
Christian’s hands froze in mid-air. His jaw dropped so violently his champagne glass rattled in his memory.
Standing before him under the brilliant stained-glass light was not a scarred, weeping phantom.
My skin was radiant, pristine, and luminous—glowing with flawless porcelain perfection, framed by soft chestnut curls. My hazel eyes burned with the lethal, crystalline brilliance of an executioner who had waited seven days for this exact second.
“Genevieve...?” Christian choked out, his voice cracking through the live audio feed to seventy million homes. “Your... your face...”
I stepped up to the altar microphone.
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“You look surprised, Christian,” I said, my voice ringing with majestic clarity across the cathedral. “Were you expecting the acid you paid sixty thousand dollars for to leave me broken?”
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