Page 2 of The Boss and the Wedding Mess
With each step I take toward the church door, I’m getting queasier. But I have to do this. For Vanessa. And for the poor woman who's about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
I reach the dark brown doors, grab the handle and take one more deep breath, before I push it open. The organ music hits my ears, and to my shock, the bride and groom are already standing at the altar, gazing at each other. Oh no! What's going on? This wasn’t supposed to have started yet.
The church is packed all the way to the back rows, and several of the well-dressed guests turn to look at me as I enter.
Have they already said, “I do”?
Doesn't matter. It’s now or never!
"Stop! I have something to say!" I shout, startled by how incredibly loudly my voice echoes in the church.
Noweveryoneturns to look at me, like in a really bad movie.
And I mean, everyone!
The stunning bride stunning in a long veil, over her brown curls. The absolute ass of a groom is in his cream-colored suit and greasy gelled hair. The bridesmaids in light blue, and the groomsmen on the other side, in cream, matching the groom. Even the pastor pauses to adjust his glasses while everyone’s staring at me.
Now or never, London. You've come this far. Don't give up!
Murmurs begin an older gentleman beside me snaps, “How dare you barge in here and..."
“This man is a cheater!” I shout, jabbing a freshly manicured pastel pink finger at the groom. “Don’t marry him! He had an affair with my best friend.”
Guests gasp. The bride stares at the jerk in horror, while the rest exchange irritated looks.
“My best friend thought she was the only one, until she found out today that she was just the mistress while her boyfriend was getting married! How can anyone be that cruel?” Then I look straight at the bride, dropping my arm. “Run, sister. Don’t waste your life on this idiot.”
"“Is that true, Marc?” she cries, devastated.
Marc? Wait—Marc?
I go quiet. Shit. I need to think. Something is wrong.
“What is this nonsense?” one of the groomsmen snaps, rushing toward me, while the so-called Marc tries to comfort his bride. She doesn’t seem thrilled at all about the bitter truth.
"Is the groom's name Marc?" I ask the older gentleman next to me.
"Yes. Marc Brown," he confirms angrily.
"Not Dominic?"
"No. His name is Marc. As I said. Marc. Not Dominic."
As I stand there petrified, the groomsman is charging at me, and his look says it all: he's not particularly happy that I'm here.
"Explain this to me, Marc!" the bride demands, agitated.
"Stephanie, I have no idea what she’s talking about!" he protests.
Oh God. Her name’s Stephanie?
"Fuck, I'm in the wrong church," I blurt out in panic.
The older gentleman next to me can't believe it. "Is this some kind of joke?"
The dark-haired groomsman is almost on top of me, so I bolt. I'm only wearing laced sandals and a knee-length pleated skirt, but they're still good for running.
"Sorry! I’m in the wrong church!" I call out before pulling the door open again and squeezing through the narrow gap. I step outside and run as fast as I can to my car. "Buckle up, we need to go!"
