Chapter 3: The Wedding Crash Heard Round the Internet
1307 Words
The church doors swung open like a spotlight hitting center stage. Elena stepped in on DV’s arm, scarlet dress blazing against the pastel sea of guests. Heads turned. Phones lifted. Whispers hissed like steam.
“That’s her—the side chick.”
“Seventy times in seven days? Girl got stamina.”
“She dares show up? Bold as hell.”
“70 × 7 = 490? Nah, he said 70 rounds, not days.”
The math didn’t matter. The numbers had become folklore.
DV leaned in, voice low and velvet. “Never give a f**k, baby. They’re staring because you’re winning already.”
“Oh, God!” She didn't believe it. The gossips were reaching her.
She wanted to check her phone—see if the narrative had flipped, if #ElenaAndMysteryMan was trending yet. Her thumb itched. But DV caught the motion.
“Focus,” he murmured. “Eyes forward. Let them wonder.”
The procession started. Organ music swelled. Bridesmaids floated past in blush pink. Elena kept her chin up, smile fixed, but inside she was vibrating. She paid this man to be here. She could look if she wanted.
“I paid you to be here,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
She slipped her phone, opened i********: quick. Notifications exploded.
Top post: grainy photo of her and DV entering the church, captioned “She really pulled up with upgrade 😭🔥 #WeddingCrashQueen”
Comments rolling:
“Marcus who? That man fineee”
“Plot twist: she hired a model to clap back”
“From 70 rounds to playboy vibes? We stan”
It was working. The story was shifting. She smiled—real this time, small and vicious.
Then silence.
Not the good kind.
She lifted her head.
Marcus and Chloe had paused from recession. Marcus in his cream tux, Chloe in white lace, bouquet trembling. Both staring straight at her and DV.
Right before her!
Fuck.
Elena wished the marble floor would swallow her. All those paparazzi flashes outside faded to nothing compared to this moment. This was the man who had taken her carefully guarded body, turned her no-s*x-until-engaged rule into his personal scoreboard, broadcast it to millions, proposed on live for clout, used her platform to rocket his photography career, then dumped her publicly without a single text—replaced her with Chloe before the ring even cooled on her finger.
And now he was winning again.
Marcus’s lips curled. He stepped forward, mic still hot from the vows.
“Well, well. The ex-side piece decided to gatecrash. Brought a rent-a-date too?” He laughed—loud, theatrical. Chloe giggled behind her hand like it was scripted.
Guests murmured. Phones angled higher. Elena felt the heat climb her neck.
DV stayed still. Too still.
Marcus kept going. “What, seventy wasn’t enough? Needed round seventy-one in the church parking lot?”
Chloe cackled louder.
The story was flipping back. Marcus was reclaiming the narrative. Elena knew the internet was recording every second—live streams, stories, t****k stitches incoming. She was losing.
“f**k,” she breathed.
Marcus waved at the security guards near the doors. “Get this slut and her hired boyfriend out. This is a sacred day.”
Guards moved—two burly men in black suits heading straight for their pew.
Elena’s heart slammed. “Do something,” she mumbled under her breath.
DV changed his posture.
One second he was relaxed arm candy. The next he straightened, shoulders rolling back like a king shedding a cloak. The smirk vanished. Eyes went cold steel.
He stepped in front of Elena, voice calm but carrying to every corner of the church.
“Touch her,” he said to the first guard, then he turned to Marcus, “and I’ll fire your father. Andrew Hale. Head of security at Voss Conglomerate. Been on payroll sixteen years. One call and he’s gone. Pension, benefits, medical—all of it.”
The guard froze mid-step.
Marcus laughed again, but it cracked. “The f**k? Who the hell are you?”
DV didn’t answer right away. He pulled out his phone, tapped once. The screen lit his face.
Then he looked up.
“I’m the man who owns the company your father works for. The man who signs the checks that pay for your mother’s chemo. The man who just bought out the venue your little photography studio rents. Voss Conglomerate. I’m the secret majority owner.”
Gasps rippled through the pews.
Elena’s mouth dropped open. She stared at him like she’d never seen him before. “DV?”
Marcus’s face drained of color. “You’re lying.”
DV tilted his head. “Call your father. Ask him who Damian Voss is. Ask him why his bonus check cleared two days early this month—because I approved it personally, just do this godforsaken marriage would hold.”
He turned slightly, addressing the room like it was a board meeting.
“I don’t do public scenes. But I also don’t let clowns disrespect women who belong to me—even for an hour.”
Marcus’s face twisted, mouth opening for another jab, but the words died when heavy footsteps approached from the front pew.
Andrew Hale—Marcus’s father, broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit, silver hair gleaming under the chandeliers—stepped closer. The man who ran security for half the city’s elite, the one whose job paid for Marcus’s flashy lifestyle. He placed a firm hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Move on, boy,” he whispered, voice low but cutting through the tension like a blade.
Marcus blinked, stunned. “Dad—”
Andrew ignored him. He turned to DV, posture shifting from protective father to deferential employee in a heartbeat. He lowered his head slightly.
“You know things that only an esteemed anonymous Damien Voss would know,” he said quietly. “My apologies, sir.” He bowed—actually bowed—deep enough that the front rows gasped.
Whispers erupted like wildfire.
“Damien Voss?”
“The Voss Conglomerate Voss?”
“That’s him?”
“No way—the ghost billionaire?”
“He's DV all along?”
“What a cover!”
Marcus’s jaw slackened. Chloe’s bouquet slipped again, petals scattering across the aisle. She clutched his arm, eyes wide.
Without another word, Andrew straightened, shot his son a look that could curdle milk, then guided the stunned couple back toward the altar. Marcus stumbled once, Chloe tugging him along as if the ground had tilted. The organist fumbled back into the recessional, notes shaky.
Elena’s heart hammered so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.
Damien Voss. DV. She joined the lines.
Fuck.
The name echoed in her skull like a dropped mic. The man she’d wired money to like he was some high-end escort was the secret owner of one of the world’s largest conglomerates. The reclusive trillionaire who never did photos, never gave interviews, never showed his face in public—until today. For her.
She stared at his profile—sharp jaw, calm eyes—as if seeing him for the first time.
He caught her gaze, smirked that same lethal smirk, and offered his arm again.
“Come on, baby,” he murmured. “We’re not done stealing the show.”
Elena swallowed, pulse roaring, and slipped her hand through his elbow. Together they joined the recessional line—heads high, whispers trailing them like confetti.
The internet was already exploding. And this time, the narrative wasn’t Marcus’s anymore. It was hers.
He slid an arm around Elena’s waist. Possessive. Protective. Final.
And Elena, with her heart racing, mind reeling—finally understood she hadn’t hired a playboy. She’d hired the storm. And the storm had just claimed her.
- Writer
