Stranger at the Wedding

Chapter 1: Uninvited Guest

In June in Buckinghamshire, the sky is as blue as a carefully tinted canvas.

On the lawn of Wentworth Manor, two hundred white chairs were neatly arranged, each tied with a cream-colored ribbon. The flower arch was covered with white roses airlifted from Kenya, their petals still bearing the morning dew. The harpist sat in the corner, fingers plucking the melody of "Canon," and musical notes fluttered among the guests like butterflies.

This is the grandest social occasion for the Wen Tewosi family in the past twenty years.

It's not because of wealth - although Richard Wentworth is indeed fabulously wealthy. It's not because of politics - although there are no fewer than three cabinet members present. It's because the entire London high society has been waiting for this day for a full year.

Emily Wentworth is getting married.

In the bride's dressing room, Ai Mili stands in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, wearing a Vera Wang custom-made wedding dress. It is a minimalist masterpiece—no lace, no sequins, only the pearlescent sheen of silk flowing under the incandescent light. Her hair is coiled into a low bun by the makeup artist, revealing her slender neck and a string of emerald necklaces—a family heirloom of the Ashworth family, which her mother-in-law personally put on her this morning.

"You look truly beautiful today." Veronica Wentworth walked up from behind, holding a tissue in her hand but not wiping away her tears. "It took your father three months to get in touch with Vera Wang herself."

Ai Mili looked at her mother in the mirror. Veronica, 55 years old, looked as well-maintained as a woman in her early 40s, with her golden hair neatly coiled at the back of her head and not a single wrinkle on her Chanel suit. But today, she was different - not just different, but abnormal. Her fingers trembled slightly, her smile hung on her face but didn't reach her eyes, and she glanced out of the window every 30 seconds, as if waiting for something.

"Mom," Ai Mili turned around, took her mother's hand, "you have something on your mind."

Veronica was stunned for a split second, so quickly that it was almost imperceptible. She smiled and said, "I'm just so happy. You always said when you were a kid that you would get married in a garden, wear a white wedding dress, and marry someone who loves you more than themselves. Now, it's all come true."

"You didn't answer my question."

"What's the problem?"

"You have something on your mind." Ai Mili repeated, her voice soft but unevadable.

Veronica opened her mouth, then closed it. She lowered her head and began to smooth out the non-existent wrinkles on the Ai Mili wedding dress. After a while, she said, "Every mother feels sad on her daughter's wedding day. It's not about reluctance, but... unease. You give your heart to someone, and you never know how he'll treat it."

"James is not that kind of person."

"I know," Veronica looked up, and this time there was finally real emotion in her eyes - not touched, but guilt, "I know he's a good person."

A knock sounded, and the wedding planner poked half of her body in: " Miss Wen Tewosi, it's time to enter."

The harpist switched to the first musical note of the wedding march.

Ai Mili took a deep breath and looped her arm through her father Richard's. Richard Wentworth, a taciturn banker in his sixties, always wore an expression of "everything under control" on his face, and this moment was no exception. He looked down at his daughter, his lips moving, and finally only said, "Don't walk too fast."

"Why?"

"Let me enjoy it a little longer."

They walked down the red carpet, with guests on both sides rising and sitting like waves of wheat. Ai Mili's gaze pierced through the crowd and locked onto the man standing under the floral arch. James Ashworth, twenty-nine years old, London's youngest Queen's Counsel, with a slightly crooked nose - a souvenir from playing rugby in college, which his mother called a "man's medal". At this moment, his face wore an almost childish smile, like a boy who had received his most beloved Christmas gift.

He is waiting for her.

This thought made Ai Mili's eyes well up with tears. They had been in love for three years. He waited six months to propose marriage and another year and a half to prepare for the wedding. He never rushed her, never doubted her, and never showed impatience on the nights when she couldn't sleep. He would hold her in his arms when she had a nightmare, send someone to deliver croissants to her office when she forgot to have breakfast, and tell her when she was anxious because of the looks from her adoptive parents, "You are the most deserving person of love I've ever met."

She believes in him.

She must believe him.

The priest, standing under the floral archway with white hair and a voice as mellow as aged whiskey, said, "If anyone here believes these two should not be joined in marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace."

This is the oldest sense of ritual at a wedding, and no one takes it seriously. Ai Mili has even already mentally continued with the next line - I do. She looks at James, and his eyes reflect her face, as well as the blue sky above the flower arch.

Then, the door was pushed open.

It wasn't slowly pushed open, but violently rammed open - the wooden door hit the stone wall with a dull thud, and all the guests turned their heads simultaneously. The harpist's hand stopped on the strings, and the last musical note dissipated in the air.

A woman is standing at the door.

She was wearing a red dress with mud on the hem, and her hair was tousled by the wind. Her face was not exactly beautiful, but she had a pair of extremely sharp eyes, which were now filled with a kind of almost manic fervor. Standing behind her was a young man, around thirty years old, wearing a black sweatshirt with the hood already removed, revealing a well-defined face. His expression was calmer than the woman's, unnaturally calm.

"I object." The woman's voice was hoarse, as if she had been shouting for a long time. "This bride is not Miss Wen Tewosi. She is my daughter, Emily Black. She was kidn*pped eighteen years ago."

The air froze.

Then, like a bursting dam, the entire venue erupted. Some stood up, some screamed, some took out their phones to record, and some whispered. Champagne glasses slipped from hands and shattered on the marble floor. A little girl in a pink dress started crying, and her mother frantically covered her eyes.

Ai Mili stood still, motionless.

Her first reaction was not fear, not anger, not even confusion. Instead, it was—some strange, inappropriate, almost absurd sense of relief.

Finally arrived.

The thought flashed through her mind for only a moment before being suppressed by reason. She looked at her father, Richard's face ashen, his jawline taut like a blade. He waved for the security guard, his voice soft but every word like a nail: "Get this crazy woman out of here."

The woman - Samantha Black - was not deterred. She took three steps forward, and as the security guard blocked her path, the young man behind her suddenly pulled something out of his sweatshirt pocket.

An envelope.

"This is a DNA test suite." The man's voice was much calmer than his mother's, as if stating a fact. "If you have a clear conscience, take the test right here and now."

The guests fell silent for a moment, then another round of whispering ensued. The four words "DNA test" were like a stone thrown into a pond, with ripples spreading out one by one. Some people began to cast different looks at Ai Mili - not out of sympathy, not out of curiosity, but out of that kind of greed that says "maybe this has nothing to do with me, but what if it does?"

Richard's fingers trembled slightly—only Ai Mili noticed, as it was a rare body language from her father. He said, "Security, take them—"

"Wait a minute." Ai Mili spoke up.

All eyes turned to her.

She spoke slowly, her voice not loud, but every word was crystal clear: "Do it. I have nothing to hide."

Veronica grabbed her hand: "Ai Mili, you don't have to—"

"I have nothing to hide." Ai Mili repeated, this time looking Samantha straight in the eye. "If what she said is true, the truth will come out sooner or later. If it's false, she will be sued for slander. Either way, we're going to settle this today."

She paused for a moment, then uttered a line that all newspapers would later quote: "I will not leave any question marks at my wedding."

Samantha's lips quivered. Was it out of emotion? Ai Mili wasn't sure. But she noticed that Samantha's eyes were red - not the red from acting, but the red that comes from having held back for so long and finally seeing a glimmer of hope.

Thirty minutes.

The rapid DNA test takes thirty minutes. During these thirty minutes, Ai Mili is arranged to wait in a side hall, while Samantha and her son are taken to another room for isolation. Richard makes three phone calls in the corridor: the first to his lawyer, the second to the police, and the third to "a certain friend" - he lowers his voice so that Ai Mili can't hear clearly. Veronica cries in the restroom for five minutes, and when she comes out, her makeup is intact, as if nothing had happened.

James stood beside Ai Mili, holding her hand all the time. He didn't say a word or offer any comfort, just held on. His hand was dry and warm, with a steady pulse. He was one of the few truly calm people, and when Ai Mili later thought about it, she felt that was the first thing about him that made her uncomfortable.

Thirty minutes later, the medical staff walked into the side hall with the report.

Everyone's eyes were fixed on that piece of paper.

"The comparison results," the medical staff cleared their throat and read professionally and dispassionately, "Emily Wentworth and Richard Wentworth, paternity probability 99.99%. Emily Wentworth and Samantha Black, paternity probability 0%."

Richard let out a long breath.

Veronica covered her mouth, not crying but laughing, a huge, relieved laugh.

Samantha let out a scream and then began to shout: "Impossible! You switched the samples! You—"

"That's enough." Richard's voice was not loud, but it was like a basin of ice water that extinguished everything. "Hand them over to the police. Prosecute them for slander, disturbing public order, and illegal trespassing on private property."

As the security guard dragged Samantha away, she kept struggling and shouting, "Check the birth certificate number! CE-1988-0615-L! Check! You check --"

When her son Jack was taken away, he was surprisingly quiet. He didn't struggle, didn't shout, but just stared fixedly at Ai Mili. There was no hatred, no anger in his eyes, but rather - a warning.

Check the number.

His lips silently formed these three words.

Ai Mili looked back at James and found that he was also looking at Jack. But in the second their eyes met, James' expression changed slightly.

Only one second.

Then he laughed, put his arm around her shoulder, and said, "It's over. Shall we continue?"

Ai Mili nodded.

The wedding resumed. The priest returned to his position under the floral arch, the harpist resumed plucking the strings, the guests took their seats again, and the champagne glasses were refilled. It was as if nothing had happened.

But the fact that nothing happened is itself the greatest anomaly.

James put the ring back on his finger, but Ai Mili noticed that he had turned the ring halfway around so that the engraved side faced his palm. She had wanted to ask, but the priest had already started reciting the blessing.

"I do." She said, looking into James' face.

Her fiancé smiles. A flawless smile.

That late night, at one o'clock in the morning, Ai Mili sat alone in the study. The wedding dress still hung behind the door, the high heels lay askew by the fireplace, and her bare feet stepped on the carpet. The light from the computer screen illuminated her face, and her fingers tapped out that string of numbers on the keyboard.

CE-1988-0615-L。

Press Enter.

A red warning message popped up on the screen: "This file is classified as a state secret. Your IP has been recorded. Please wait for contact."

Ai Mili stared at the line of words, her heart beating slowly and heavily. She heard footsteps in the corridor - but she didn't turn around. She thought that if the knock came, she wouldn't be surprised.

The sound of knocking on the door rang.

It's not the door to the study, but the door at the other end of the corridor. The footsteps faded away.

Ai Mili's phone lit up, showing a text message from an unknown number: "Tomorrow at 10 a.m., Victoria Station, Platform 3. Come alone. Otherwise, you'll end up like your real parents - disappearing."

She stared at the screen, the light from which was reflected in her pupils, like two stars about to go out.

Behind him, the study door remained closed.

But outside the c***k of the door, a figure flashed by.

Ai Mili turned off the computer, got up, walked to the door, and yanked it open.

The corridor is empty.

But there is a water stain on the carpet that hasn't dried yet.

is not water.

is blood.

She crouched down, touched the drop of liquid with her fingertips, and held it under her nose tip - it smelled of rust.

At the end of the corridor, around the corner, a pair of eyes watched her in the darkness. She couldn't see those eyes, but she knew they were there. Just as she knew that the first rays of sunlight the next morning would shine in through the east window, she knew for certain, without any reason.

Someone is watching her.

That person has been watching her since the beginning of the wedding.

That person has been watching her since a long, long time ago.

She closed the study door, locked it, then pulled open the drawer and took out something—a key she had stolen from her father's study at the wedding. It was silver, very old, with a number engraved on the key handle.

M-17。

She doesn't know what that means. But she'll soon find out.

Tomorrow at 10:00 AM, Victoria Station, Platform 3.

She won't go alone. She brought a pistol.

It was from her father's safe, and she stole it while he was on the phone.

When he made the call, he said, "She's checking the number. We must speed up."

What to speed up?

She didn't ask. She just stole the g*n, locked the door, turned off the lights, and waited for insomnia in the darkness.

Outside the window, the moon is very round, like a peeping eye.

In a building in the distance of the manor, a lamp lit up and then went out.

is not Wentworth's property.

is from the Ministry of National Defense.

She doesn't know. She knows nothing.

But she'll soon find out.