3. The Chapel Doors
The giant, arched oak doors of the country club chapel burst open.
Brilliant, golden afternoon sunlight flooded into the room, illuminating the long white runner that stretched toward the altar. The pews were packed with our friends, Ethan’s incredibly discreet inner circle, and my entire extended family.
I took my father’s arm. He was trembling slightly, nervous about the crowd. I patted his hand reassuringly, and together, we began to walk slowly down the aisle to the soaring melody of a cello.
My eyes immediately searched the altar.
My breath caught in my throat.
Ethan stood there, waiting for me.
For two years, I had known him as the man in the faded jeans and comfortable sweaters. But today, standing under the vaulted ceiling of the chapel, he had completely shed his “average guy” disguise.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored, midnight-black Tom Ford tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders with lethal precision. His posture was impeccably straight, his chin raised slightly. The quiet, unassuming warmth in his eyes had sharpened into the piercing, commanding gaze of a man who controlled a global empire. He exuded an imposing, gravitational authority that he had purposefully kept hidden around my family.
He looked like absolute power. He looked like Ethan Whitmore.
