An elderly man stepped inside. He was tall but stooped with age, wearing a heavy dark trench coat that looked far too warm for the mild weather. His gray hair was slicked neatly back, his face lined not just by age, but by cold calculation and years of secrets. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t glance around the crowd, didn’t look surprised to be crashing a wedding.
Emma frowned, scanning the front pews, wondering if he was a distant relative Vincent had forgotten to mention. She turned to her fiancé instinctively—and the truth hit her all at once. Vincent knew this man. Not the warm recognition of family, but the cold dread of someone facing their reckoning. All the color drained from Vincent’s face the second their eyes met. His mouth fell open, ready to speak, warn, or beg—but no sound came out.
Daniel took a sharp step backward. Vincent glanced sideways at Daniel for only a split second. Daniel caught the look instantly, his jaw tightening. He gave Vincent a small, deliberate nod. A silent signal. The officiant prompted Vincent to start his wedding vows. Vincent inhaled shakily and began to speak. His voice trembled, wavering on the first line, steadying briefly, then faltering again.
