They Called Me Insane Just To Hide Their Affair

I stared at the shredded pile of white silk on the floor.

My custom Vera Wang gown. The one I’d waited five years to wear. Now it was nothing but jagged ribbons and scattered pearls.

"Pick up the damn phone," I muttered.

I pressed the device to my ear, listening to the endless ringing.

"This is Chloe. Leave a message."

The stylist’s voicemail beeped.

I ended the call and dialed the driver.

"The number you have reached is out of service."

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I kicked a torn piece of tulle away from my bare foot.

Time was running out. John was waiting.

New York’s most elusive billionaire was finally making our five-year secret relationship public today. The media was already swarming the cathedral.

I scrolled through my contacts and hit the name of John’s head of security, Marcus.

"Marcus, it’s Elowen," I said the second the line connected.

"Miss? Where are you? Mr. Crawford is getting anxious."

"Everything is gone," I told him, pacing the length of my bedroom. "My dress is destroyed. No one showed up. Send a car for me right now."

Silence hung on the line.

"Marcus?"

"I'm sorry, Miss," Marcus replied. His voice sounded oddly strained. "All vehicles are currently occupied by the VIP guests. You’ll have to find your own way."

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen. Marcus never hung up on me.

Panic flared in my chest.

I threw on the clothes I’d worn yesterday—a faded gray sweater and plain denim jeans.

No time for makeup. No time to fix the tangled mess of my hair.

I ran out the door.

The cab ride felt like an eternity. Traffic was gridlocked around Columbus Circle.

"Keep the change," I said. I shoved a crumpled twenty-dollar bill at the driver.

I sprinted up the marble steps of the cathedral.

Cameras flashed blindingly from the barricades.

"Who is that?" a reporter shouted. He thrust a microphone toward my face.

"Is she a protestor?" another yelled.

I ignored them. I shoved past the heavy-set security guards flanking the entrance.

"Hey! You can't go in there!" one guard barked. He grabbed my arm.

I ripped my arm out of his grip.

"I am the bride," I snapped.

The guard blinked. His eyes darted from my messy bun to my scuffed sneakers. He laughed.

"Sure you are, lady. And I'm the Pope."

"Check your earpiece," I demanded. "Tell Marcus that Elowen is here. Now."

He pressed a finger to his ear. His smirk faded into a frown. He stepped aside.

I reached the heavy oak doors of the grand hall.

My hands trembled against the polished wood.

I pushed them open.

The massive hinges groaned loudly.

A sea of tuxedos and designer gowns turned toward the entrance.

The string quartet stopped playing mid-note.

Silence slammed into the room.

I stood at the top of the aisle. The gray sweater clung awkwardly to my frame. My sneakers squeaked against the pristine marble floor as I took a single step forward.

Whispers erupted like a swarm of hornets.

"Is that a joke?" a woman in the front row hissed to her companion.

"Look at her hair. Did she sleep in a dumpster?" a man chuckled.

I kept my eyes locked straight ahead.

John stood at the altar.

His tailored black tuxedo fit him flawlessly. His dark hair was perfectly swept back.

But it was his face that made my chest tighten.

A sharp flash of displeasure crossed his features. His jaw locked tight.

He didn't step forward to meet me.

"John," I said. My voice barely carried over the murmurs.

I walked down the long, white runner. Hundreds of judgmental eyes tracked my every movement.

A tall, imposing figure stepped into the center aisle, blocking my path.

Arthur Crawford. John’s father.

His silver hair gleamed under the chandeliers. His eyes were pure ice.

"What is the meaning of this?" Arthur barked.

He looked me up and down. His upper lip curled in disgust.

"Mr. Crawford, I can explain," I started.

"Explain?" Arthur interrupted. His voice boomed across the silent hall. "You show up to the wedding of the century looking like a street beggar. You humiliate my son. You humiliate this family."

"Arthur, please," I tried again.

"Do not address me by my first name today," he snapped. "The media is outside. The governor is sitting in the third row. And John's bride arrives in denim?"

He turned his glare toward the altar.

"Is this the woman you fought me to marry, John?" Arthur demanded. "A girl who can't even dress herself for her own wedding?"

"Father, enough," John said.

His tone was flat. Unreadable.

Arthur didn't back down. "No. I warned you about her background. I warned you she lacked the grace for our circle."

I curled my hands into fists. My nails dug into my palms.

"Where is your dress, Elowen?" Arthur demanded. He turned back to me. "Where is the dignity you promised to bring to the Crawford name?"

I looked past Arthur, straight into John's eyes.

"Someone set me up," I said.

The whispers in the room spiked in volume.

John’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"The dress was shredded," I said. I projected my voice so the front rows could hear. "The stylist never arrived. The driver vanished. My phone calls were blocked."

Arthur scoffed loudly. "A convenient excuse for sheer incompetence."

"It’s the truth," I shot back. "Someone made sure I wouldn't make it here today. But I came anyway, because I wouldn't leave John standing at the altar."

I looked at John again. I needed him to defend me.

He finally stepped down from the dais.

He closed the distance between us. His gaze swept over my messy clothes.

"You expect me to believe a ghost sabotaged our wedding?" John asked.

The coldness in his question felt like a physical blow.

"You think I would do this to myself?" I asked.

"I think," John replied. His tone dropped to a low murmur only I could hear. "That you made a spectacle of us."

"John, my dress was cut into pieces. Someone broke into my suite."

"Did you call the police?" he asked smoothly.

"No, I rushed here to tell you—"

"So you have no proof."

I stared at him. The man I had loved in secret for five years felt like a stranger.

"You don't believe me," I whispered.

"I believe what I see," John stated. He gestured to my clothes. "And I see a woman who didn't take today seriously."

"I fought my way through security just to get to you!" I argued. "I didn't care how I looked. I only cared about you."

"Then you should have cared enough to protect the gown," Arthur chimed in from the side. "That dress cost more than your life."

"Stay out of this," I told Arthur.

"Do not speak to my father that way," John warned. His voice grew sharper.

I took a step back. The marble floor felt freezing through the thin soles of my shoes.

"Five years, John," I said. "Five years of hiding in the shadows. Five years of secret dinners and private jets so the press wouldn't find out about us. Today was supposed to be the day we stopped hiding."

"And you ruined it," John replied.

"I didn't ruin it!" I shouted. The words echoed off the high vaulted ceilings.

Silence descended on the room once again.

John's expression hardened into a mask of pure stone.

"Lower your voice, Elowen," he ordered.

"Are you embarrassed by me?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away. His silence was louder than any insult.

"Answer me, John."

"Look at yourself," he finally said. "You look completely unhinged."

"Because someone destroyed my wedding!"

"Because you couldn't handle the pressure," John countered.

"No. Someone in your inner circle did this. Someone who knew the schedule. Someone who knew the security codes to my suite."

"Are you accusing my staff?" John asked.

"I'm stating a fact."

Before John could answer, a woman’s voice rang out from the back of the hall.

"She's lying!"

The crowd parted.

A woman in a stunning crimson gown walked down the aisle. She held up a clear plastic bag. Inside it were the silver shears from my vanity set.

"I found these in her hotel room," the woman announced. A triumphant smile played on her lips. "Along with the shredded dress."

I recognized her instantly.

Victoria. John's childhood friend. The woman Arthur had always wanted him to marry.

"What were you doing in my room?" I demanded.

Victoria ignored me and handed the bag to John.

"Her fingerprints are all over the handles, John," Victoria said sweetly. "She destroyed the dress herself. She wanted the attention."