It was a long holiday weekend, and the entire city was in celebration mode.
At The Grand Court Hotel, Westbridge’s most extravagant venue, a dozen weddings were happening simultaneously, each one unfolding with seamless precision.
On the sixtieth floor, in a dark little utility room, Serena Dawson was nodding off from exhaustion.
Earlier that morning, while getting her makeup done downstairs, she overheard some gossip — apparently, a super exclusive wedding was taking place on the sixtieth floor. Both the bride and groom came from elite families. Especially the groom — a real legend in Westbridge.
To keep the whole thing private, the elevators were locked down past the 60th floor. No VIP badge, no entry.
That overheard gossip basically saved her. While the lobby was packed with people, she had quietly slipped off, climbed the stairs, and ducked into this room to hide.
Her parents were trying to force her to marry a man old enough to be her dad, just to cover a gambling debt of 600,000 bucks.
She never imagined there’d be a price tag on her one day, let alone a six-hundred-thousand-dollar one. How flattering.
She was in such a rush to bail she didn’t even get to change. The wedding dress she was stuck in was suffocating.
She didn’t know how long she’d been in there, half-asleep, before music started playing.
She flinched awake, curiosity kicking in.
Weddings like this are a first for her.
She nudged the door open just a crack, and peeked out. From her angle, she could only see the groom on stage.
And boy — he was something else. Sharp eyes, sculpted features, brows like blades, and thin lips. Tall, lean, and in that tailored suit? The man looked like he walked off a magazine cover. He practically oozed power and wealth.
That was money talking, no doubt.
But wait — why did he look so... bored? Shouldn’t grooms at least pretend to smile?
“Mr. Quinn, do you take this beautiful woman, Miss Chloe Garland, as your lawfully wedded wife? To honor her, cherish her, respect and protect her, in wealth or poverty, in sickness and in health, remaining faithful and loving till death do you part?” The host was going full-on dramatic, voice echoing through the ballroom.
Then the man, Matthew Quinn, gave a crooked smile and said, “Sorry, didn’t catch that. Mind repeating?”
The host was using a loud mic. No way he didn’t hear. The playful look on Matthew’s face made the whole place tense up. Awkward silence spread like wildfire.
The host glanced down, clearly panicking, sweat starting to bead.
He stammered, voice shaky this time: “Mr. Quinn, do you...?”
Suddenly, soft footsteps sounded from the entrance.
Serena slapped a hand over her mouth to keep quiet and scrambled up, trying to sneak off again. But the dress, that stupid long gown, tangled up underneath her.
Before she could steady herself, she tripped.
And tumbled right out onto the stage.
Everything stopped.
Eyes wide, mouth agape, the host stared at the girl now sitting on the floor in a wedding gown. Every single head in the room turned toward Serena.
Dead silence.
And then it hit her — she’d seriously messed up.
She tried to stand, but pain shot through her ankle. Damn, she must’ve twisted it.
All she could do was sit there awkwardly and laugh. “Haha... whoops, wrong venue.”
The host jumped in fast, trying to save the moment. “Ah yes, so many weddings today! A little mix-up, folks. Let’s carry on. Mr. Quinn, do you—”
“I don’t.” A cold voice rang out behind Serena. The same man who’d been smirking before was now all frost, no emotion in sight.
The crowd gasped.
“Matthew...” the bride called out, sounding desperate and helpless.
Serena was desperately trying to get back up and sneak away. Her heart was pounding — crap, crap, crap. She really stepped in it now.
“I want to marry her.”