Page 1 of The Chains that Bind
Chapter One
Seraphina
My hands arenumb as I stand at the altar, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt. The diamond on my finger catches the light, sending prisms across my cream-colored gown, but the weighteen of it feels more like a shackle than a promise. Richard waits across from me, his smile patient and kind, everything I told myself I wanted—safe, dependable, boring. The veil hanging from my perfectly coiffed updo can't hide the truth I'm desperately trying to ignore: this is wrong.
The minister drones on about sacred unions and eternal devotion while my heart pounds so loudly I'm certain the two hundred guests can hear it echo through the cathedral. My bouquet trembles in my grip, white roses and baby's breath that my mother insisted upon because they were "classic." Just like Richard. Just like this whole carefully orchestrated life I've constructed.
Richard squeezes my fingers, his touch gentle but impersonal, the same way he's touched me for the eighteenmonths we've been together. His sandy brown hair is neatly combed, his tuxedo perfectly tailored to his unremarkable physique. He is thirty-four, established, respected in the art community as a collector and benefactor. The perfect match for an ambitious gallery director like me.
We met at a charity auction I'd organized—me auctioning off donated works from emerging artists, him bidding generously on pieces that wouldn't appreciate much in value but would look appropriately sophisticated in his Tribeca apartment. He asked me to dinner afterward. I said yes because he was exactly the type of man I should want.
"You're a vision," he'd told me on our first date, in the same measured tone he used to discuss interest rates and investment portfolios. He courted me methodically, with reservation-only restaurants and thoughtfully selected wines. When he proposed six months ago, kneeling before me in the private room of Le Bernardin, I said yes because it made sense. Because after Knox...
No. I won't think about Knox today. I won't think about dark eyes that burned when they looked at me, about hands that gripped rather than held, about a mouth that devoured instead of kissed.
The cathedral is a masterpiece of planning—white orchids cascade from every pew, string quartet playing Bach exactly as rehearsed, bridesmaids in perfectly matched sage green that complements the hydrangea centerpieces waiting at the reception. My mother beams from the front row, finally seeing her daughter make the "right choice." My father, still somehow intimidated by wealth despite his own success, looks proud that his little girl has secured her place in Manhattan society.
A drop of sweat traces my spine beneath the silk and lace. This dress cost more than some people's cars, hand-stitched and custom-fitted through six exhausting appointments. It hugs mytorso like a second skin before flaring at my hips in a dramatic sweep of fabric and crystals. Beautiful. Expected. Safe.
Richard's eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles encouragingly. He thinks I'm experiencing normal bridal nerves. He has no idea that the voice screaming in my head isn't nervous—it's desperate.
"If anyone has reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
The traditional line hangs in the air, and for one wild moment, I imagine shouting out myself. Instead, silence stretches, broken only by someone's discreet cough from the back rows.
I stare at the clergy's aging face, at the Bible in his hands, at anything except the future waiting to swallow me whole. I've built my career on calculated risks, on knowing exactly when to take a chance on an unknown artist, on balancing passion with practicality. But somewhere along the way, I started choosing only practicality, letting passion die a quiet death.
"Do you, Seraphina Vale, take this man..."
The words fill the vast space, and my lips part, the "I do" balanced precariously on my tongue.
That's when I hear it—the whump-whump-whump slicing through the refined string quartet's rendition of Pachelbel. At first, it's just a distant thrum, easily dismissed as city noise bleeding through ancient stone walls. But it grows louder, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Richard's brow furrows in confusion, his programming interrupted. The minister falters, losing his place in the time-honored script. My mother's smile freezes, then cracks around the edges.
The sound becomes an assault now, vibrating the stained glass windows until they hum with colors. Gasps ripple through the congregation as the chandeliers sway gently overhead. Myheart, which had been racing with doubt, now thunders with a different kind of panic—or is it anticipation?
A woman's voice rises above the growing murmurs: "What on earth is that?"
I know. Even before the screech of metal against stone reaches us from outside, I know with a terrible, wonderful certainty.
The massive oak doors at the back of the cathedral burst open. Wind rushes in, carrying rose petals and carefully arranged programs in its wake. A page boy tumbles backward into his mother's lap. The quartet's music dissolves into discordant notes before stopping altogether.
"There's a helicopter!" someone shouts, unnecessary now that we can all see the sleek black machine lowering itself into the courtyard, its rotors sending hurricane-force winds through the open doorway.
Richard's hand tightens around mine, no longer gentle but fearful. "What's happening?" he asks, as if I would know. But I do know. My body knows before my mind fully accepts it—the numbness in my hands replaced by tingling awareness, the guilt in my chest transformed into something electric.
Guests scramble from their seats, some rushing toward the doors to see, others backing away in alarm. My father stands, outrage replacing his pride. My mother's perfect coif wilts in real-time as she clutches her pearls, actually clutches them like a character from a drawing-room drama.
"Seraphina?" Richard tugs at my hand, trying to pull me away from the altar, to safety, to the back rooms where we can hide until this inexplicable interruption passes. But I'm rooted to the spot, watching as the chaos unfolds in slow motion.
The helicopter settles, the wind dies down just enough for a single figure to emerge from its gleaming body. Even from this distance, through swirling dust and rose petals and the bodiesof fleeing guests, I recognize him immediately. How could I not? No one else stands like that—like they own not just the ground beneath their feet but the very air around them.
The bouquet slips from my fingers, white roses scattering across the altar steps. The veil that took an hour to secure is torn away by a gust. I should be horrified, embarrassed, angry—but all I feel is alive, truly alive, for the first time in eighteen months.
"Seraphina!" Richard calls again, his voice fading beneath the thunder of my pulse.
Because Knox Vance is cutting through my perfect wedding like an avenging angel, his face hard as granite, his eyes fixed on me with such ferocious intent that I can feel them burning through my overpriced gown.
