My Billionaire Groom Left Me Freezing at the Altar — So I Married His Worst Enemy
Part 1
The freezing December wind whipped through the grand archways of the cathedral, biting at my exposed shoulders.
I stood at the altar in a custom silk gown that felt heavier by the second.
Hundreds of the city’s elite sat in the pews behind me, their expectant murmurs slowly dissolving into a suffocating silence.
Craig Miller was supposed to be standing next to me.
Instead, there was only a crumpled piece of heavy cardstock resting on the marble steps.
The best man had handed it to the priest just moments before the organ music faded.
Craig had not been delayed by traffic.
He had not suffered a medical emergency.
He had boarded a private jet to Paris with Heather Nguyen, a notorious socialite who made a sport of destroying engagements.
He chose scandal over duty, completely destroying my life in front of everyone who mattered.
Humiliation is not just an emotion.
It is a brutal physical sensation.
A burning flush crept up my neck, followed immediately by an icy numbness that paralyzed my limbs.
The priest cleared his throat awkwardly, stepping away as if my misfortune were somehow contagious.
My father, Dan Robinson, stood up from the front pew.
His face was completely distorted by apoplectic rage.
He did not look at me with sympathy or pity.
He looked at me with profound, unforgiving disgust.
He hissed at me, his voice carrying just enough for the first three rows to hear.
Our family business was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.
This marriage was a corporate merger disguised as a romance, meant to save our real estate empire in exchange for bringing my family’s pristine reputation to Craig’s firm.
My father spat that I had failed to hold Craig’s attention long enough to get a ring on my finger.
He told me I had completely disgraced our name.
I whispered that I knew nothing of Craig’s plans, my hands trembling around my bouquet of white roses.
My father turned his back on me, declaring I was no longer his daughter.
He ordered me never to return to his house.
He called me a ruined, discarded liability.
With a sweeping turn, he marched down the center aisle.
The sea of wealthy guests parted for him, their eyes darting between my furious father and me.
Within minutes, the massive church emptied entirely.
The elite fled the scent of scandal as quickly as they would a plague, eager to reach their group chats and brunch tables to dissect the catastrophe.
Soon, I was entirely alone.
I walked numbly out of the heavy oak doors and onto the stone steps.
The sky above the city was a bruised gray, and sleet had begun to fall in thick sheets.
The temperature had plummeted.
The valet driveway was completely empty.
My father had taken the family car, leaving me stranded in thin silk heels and a fragile dress.
The biting wind whipped my veil around my face, stinging my cheeks with ice.
I had no money, no phone, and no destination.
From the shadows of the portico, a tall figure detached himself from the concrete pillars.
He wore a heavy charcoal overcoat, his hands buried casually in his pockets.
It was Brian Patel.
If Craig Miller was a golden-haired charmer who traded on smiles, Brian Patel was a man forged from cold iron.
He was dangerously wealthy, notoriously ruthless, and possessed a reputation so dark that competitors folded their companies rather than face him in boardrooms.
More importantly, he was Craig’s oldest and most lethal enemy.
A bitter corporate feud between the Patel and Miller families had raged for a decade.
Brian had come to the church today for one reason only.
He wanted to watch Craig shackle himself to a loveless corporate alliance.
Instead, he had witnessed a slaughter.
He stopped two steps below me, his piercing dark eyes scanning my trembling form.
Sleet was already settling in my hair and catching in the intricate lace of my bodice.
I felt like a ghost fading into the winter storm.
He told me I was freezing to death, his voice a low baritone that cut perfectly through the howling wind.
I stiffened, my pride forcing my chin up even as my teeth chattered violently.
I asked if he had stayed behind to gloat at my misfortune.
His expression remained entirely impassive.
He stated he did not find the sight of a woman left to freeze amusing.
He found it wasteful, and he considered my father a coward of the highest order.
He stripped off his heavy wool coat, the dark fabric still radiating his body heat.
Without asking for permission, he stepped up and draped the massive coat over my shoulders.
The sudden, overwhelming warmth brought a desperate sting of tears to my eyes, but I blinked them away furiously.
The coat smelled of cedarwood, cold air, and something distinctly sharp.
He commanded me to come with him, turning toward the street where a sleek black SUV stood idling.
I clutched the edges of the coat, protesting that I could not go with him.
I argued I was already the subject of the century’s greatest scandal.
Being seen entering the vehicle of his greatest rival would only confirm every terrible rumor.
Brian paused, looking back at me over his shoulder with a dark, cynical half-smile.
He told me my reputation died twenty minutes ago when Craig’s note was read.
He pointed out that I was destitute, abandoned, and currently standing in a blizzard in a wedding dress.
Propriety was a luxury I could no longer afford.
Get in the car before you catch pneumonia and die on these steps, granting Craig the satisfaction of completely erasing you.
