A ripple of shock spread through the crowd as Maxwell advanced down the crimson carpet, his black suit cutting a stark, somber figure against the sea of white-clad guests. In his hands, he cradled a gray-toned portrait of Scarlett, the frame encircled by a delicate garland of jasmine flowers.
The room plunged into silence so deep you could hear a pin drop on the marble floor. Every eye followed his steady, deliberate strides. His face remained an unreadable mask, betraying nothing of the storm raging within.
When he reached the stage, he turned to face the assembly. His gaze swept across the crowd once, twice, before his voice cut through the air like a blade.
"I'm not here for a wedding." The words rang clear and final. "This is a memorial. For the love of my life. For Scarlett. My one
