The Daughter He Rejected

Chapter 3

(Duncan POV)

I did not belong at the wedding.

My uniform was clean, pressed, but it was not a tuxedo. The other men wore silk and diamonds. I wore navy blue polyester with a badge that said “Paramedic.” My job was to stand near the back, stay out of sight, and be ready in case someone fainted or choked or had a heart attack. Rich people had heart attacks at weddings. It was good money.

The wedding hall smelled like roses and expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Waiters in black vests carried silver trays of champagne. I leaned against a pillar near the kitchen door and watched the guests file in.

I did not know the bride. I did not know the groom. I only knew that the Armstrong name meant power, and power meant good pay.

Then I saw her.

She walked down the aisle on her uncle’s arm, her white dress flowing behind her like water. Dark curls pinned up with small white flowers. Warm brown skin. A smile that made her whole face glow.

My chest tightened.

I had seen her before. Not at a wedding. Not in a magazine. Somewhere else. A long time ago.

I tried to place her. The emergency room? No. A car accident? No.

Then she reached the altar. The groom took her hands. The priest began to speak.

I pushed the thought away. It did not matter. She was a bride. I was a hired hand. We would never speak.

---

The police arrived forty minutes later.

I saw them first. Three officers in dark uniforms, moving fast down the hallway toward the main doors. Something was wrong.

I pushed off from the pillar and walked closer.

The doors burst open. The officers stepped inside. Their boots clicked on the marble floor.

“Amelia Campbell?” the lead officer called out.

The bride turned. Her face went pale.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Armstrong.”

Gasps. Screams. A woman fainted. I moved toward her, instinct taking over, but another guest caught her first.

I looked at the bride.

She was staring at the groom. Her lips moved. I could not hear the words.

The groom’s face was white. His hands shook. He looked at his mother. He looked at a blonde woman in the front row. He looked everywhere but at his bride.

Then he spoke.

“She has mental health issues. She’s been unstable for months. Don’t take her to jail. Take her to a psychiatric hospital. She needs treatment, not prison.”

The bride stopped moving.

She stared at him like she had never seen him before.

“David,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

The officers pulled her away. Her dress tore at the hem. A white rose fell from her hair and landed on the floor.

I watched her go.

Something in my chest cracked.