Chapter 5 - The Wedding Dress
The morning air outside the master suite was thick with tension.
Brooke Harrington stood in the center of her dressing room, staring at her reflection in the full-length gilded mirror. She wore a breathtaking, custom-made Vera Wang wedding gown of pure silk and hand-sewn European lace, worth more than most houses in Newport. Her honey-blond hair was styled into an intricate, cascading updo, and her diamond earrings caught the light like sharp little daggers.
Today was Saturday. Today was supposed to be the day she became Mrs. Dominic Mercer, mistress of the Newport estate, and absolute ruler of a multi-million-dollar empire.
So why did the house feel like a tomb?
Since dawn, the servants had avoided her entirely. When she rang for coffee, Emma hadn't answered—a junior maid had dropped a cold tray on the landing without making eye contact. And worst of all, Dominic hadn't come to her suite once since returning from his mysterious "business trip" the night before.
A sharp knock sounded at her door.
Brooke turned, smoothing down the front of her stunning gown, a triumphant, practiced smile returning to her lips. “Come in,” she called out, assuming it was the wedding planner with the final bouquet schedule.
The heavy door slowly swung open.
It wasn't the wedding planner.
It was Dominic.
He wore a bespoke black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, looking every bit the ruthless mob boss and billionaire titan rolled into one. But there was no warmth in his dark eyes—only a terrifying, arctic stillness.
Brooke’s smile faltered, though she quickly recovered, letting out a light, musical laugh as she glided toward him across the thick carpet.
“Dom! Finally,” she purred, reaching out to rest her manicured hand against his lapel. “You’re impossible to pin down today. The photographer is downstairs, my father is throwing a fit because the yacht hasn't been fueled, and you’re wandering around in your tuxedo hours before the ceremony. What’s wrong?”
Dominic didn't smile. He didn't move away, but he didn't lean in either. He simply looked down at her hand resting against his chest, then slowly raised his gaze to meet hers.
“Where is your father, Brooke?” Dominic asked quietly.
Brooke blinked, surprised by the question. “Arthur? He’s at the Newport Harbor Club reviewing the guest arrivals with the caterers. Why? Did something happen with the reception hall?”
“Something happened, all right,” Dominic replied. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of legal documents, holding them up between them.
Brooke’s eyes dropped to the papers. Even from a distance, she recognized the crimson seal across the top corner.
Federal arrest warrants.
And right beneath them, a copy of the confessed testimony signed less than two hours ago by Marcus Vance in a federal holding cell.
All the blood drained from Brooke’s face. The smile vanished completely, leaving her features rigid and pale.
“Dom…” she whispered, her voice cracking. “What… what is this?”
“Marcus signed a full confession this morning,” Dominic said, his voice as flat and merciless as a judge’s gavel. “He detailed every single meeting he had with your father, every digital backdoor you installed in the estate server, and every clause you forged to steal my deceased mother’s trust from Natalie and Noah.”
Brooke staggered backward, her heavy lace gown tangling around her ankles, nearly causing her to trip over the velvet ottoman. She caught herself against the edge of the dressing table, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
“He’s lying!” she shrieked, the panic finally breaking through her composure like shattered glass. “Marcus is a coward! He’s trying to save his own skin by throwing me under the bus! Dom, you can’t believe him—we’re getting married in four hours! Look at me! I’m wearing your wife’s dress!”
Dominic stepped closer. He didn't raise his voice, but every word carried the weight of an avalanche.
“You are wearing an expensive costume, Brooke,” Dominic said, his eyes boring straight through her soul. “Because there is no wedding today.”
Brooke froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. “N—no… no, you can’t cancel the wedding! The society pages are already running the spread! My father—the entire eastern seaboard—everyone knows we’re—!”
“Your father is currently being escorted off the Newport Harbor Club docks by federal marshals on charges of corporate racketeering and securities fraud,” Dominic interrupted smoothly. “And as for you…”
Dominic tossed the federal warrants onto the dressing table, right beside her diamond tiara.
May you like
“You have two hours to pack your bags, strip off that dress, and get off my property. Because if you are still breathing the air in this house when the clock strikes noon, I won't just let the federal marshals handle you. I’ll show you what happens to people who try to steal from the Mercer family.”
With that, Dominic turned on his heel, walked out of the suite, and slammed the heavy oak door behind him with a finality that echoed through the entire mansion.
