The applause was deafening, a wall of sound that masked the screech of tires outside. William and Sophie turned to face their guests, ready to walk back up the aisle as a united front.
*BANG.*
The heavy oak doors of the sanctuary didn’t just open; they were thrown wide with violent force, slamming against the stone walls. The sound cracked through the acoustic panels like a gunshot .
The applause died instantly. The string quartet screeched to a halt.
In the doorway stood Marcus Thorne. He was not the composed music producer the world knew; he was disheveled, his coat torn, chest heaving from the desperate escape from Dante Ricci’s men. He wasn’t alone. He was gripping the arm of a woman bundled in an oversized coat, pulling her into the sanctuary as if it were a fortress.
“Marcus?” William whispered, the smile sliding off his face. “What are you doing?”