The silence in the Vance Conservatory was shattered by the frantic squeak of dress shoes on marble. William Croft, blinded by tears and adrenaline, lunged toward the woman cowering in the aisle.
“Victoria!” he screamed, reaching for her. “It’s me! Look at me!”
“Get away!” Victoria shrieked, her voice unrecognizable in its terror. She buried her face in Marcus Thorne’s coat, trembling violently. She was not the confident diva who had sung “The Serpent’s Coil”; she was a frightened amnesiac known as “Elena,” facing a stranger who claimed to own her.
“William, stop!” Marcus shouted, stepping between them.
William didn’t stop. The “White Knight” complex that had once driven him to deliver a baby in a storm now drove him to force a connection that wasn’t there. He grabbed Victoria’s arm, trying to pull her from Marcus.
“You’re my wife!” William roared.
Marcus didn’t hesitate. He balled his fist and swung, connecting squarely with William’s jaw.
*Crack.*
William stumbled back, crashing into a pew. The crowd gasped. Security guards swarmed the aisle.
Standing alone at the altar, Sophie Laurent watched the scene unfold. She was still holding her bridal bouquet. Her veil was perfectly pinned. But as William scrambled up, bleeding from the lip, he didn’t look back at her once. He only looked at the woman who didn’t remember him. In the space of a heartbeat, Sophie had gone from a bride to a ghost in her own wedding.