She Has His Eyes, and He’s Marrying My Stepsister Chapter 12

Chapter 12: I Do

St. Catherine’s Cathedral was packed to the rafters.

White roses everywhere. A string quartet. Cameras flashing at every corner. Sloane had sold the exclusive photo fights to a magazine for half a million dollars.

I sat in the very last pew in a plain black dress and sunglasses, my hands knotted in my lap. Grant was on one side of me. Maya on the other.

Ivy was at home with Killian’s head of security and about forty stuffed ducks. Safe.

“He hasn’t told me the plan,” I whispered. “What if something goes wrong?”

Grant squeezed my hand. “Trust him.”

At the altar, Killian stood in a black tuxedo with his hands folded. Expressionless. Like a statue carved from ice.

My mother sat in the front row, already dabbing her eyes. Beside her, Richard Reyes looked smug.

The music swelled. Everyone stood.

And Sloane appeared in the doorway.

She looked beautiful. I hated that. Glowing in custom white lace, a veil trailing six feet behind her. She walked slowly, soaking up every gasp, every camera click.

Her eyes found me in the last row. And she smiled.

She reached the altar. Killian took her hand.

The priest began. I didn’t hear the words. My heart was pounding too loudly.

Then: “If anyone here knows a reason why these two should not be joined, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Silence.

Sloane smirked.

“No objections?” the priest said. “Then, Killian, do you take-”

“Actually, Father,” Killian said calmly, “before we get to that. I prepared a little something. A slideshow. For my bride.”

Sloane beamed. “Oh, baby. You didn’t have to.”

“Oh, I did,”

He nodded at the back of the church. The giant screen behind the altar, the one meant for their love story photos, flickered on.

The first image was a sticky note. Five years old. Pink pen. A phone number.

Sloane’s smile froze.

The next was the text. Get rid of it. That night was a mistake. Then the carrier record. Her email address in giant letters.

The crowd started murmuring.

The next was a photo of a returned letter. Pink smiley face.

Then the doorbell video started playing. Sloane stirring peanut butter into cookie dough. Sloane stealing my Epen Five hundred people gasped at once.

“Turn it off,” Sloane hissed. “Turn it off right now.”

Killian didn’t move.

The next slide was a signed confession. The man from the park. Paid ten thousand dollars to take a five-year-old girl from her school.

Then the fertility clinic’s stock ultrasound, side by side with the one from her post. Identical.

My mother stood up, white as paper. “Sloane? What is this?”

Killian finally let go of Sloane’s hand. Like he was dropping trash.

“You asked if there was any reason we shouldn’t be married,” he said, his voice ringing through the cathedral. “There are about forty. But here’s the only one that matters.”

He turned and looked directly at me in the very last row.

“I’ve been in love with someone else since I was twenty-four years old. And you stole five years of my daughter’s life.”

The whole church turned to stare at me.

Sloane’s face twisted into something ugly. She grabbed the priest’s microphone and screamed.

“You think he LOVES you?” she shrieked at me. “You stupid girl! Ask him why he really bought your building! Ask him what he’s been doing for the past three years behind your back!”