His fingers tightened painfully around my arm. His body went rigid.
“Dad?” I whispered, panic rising. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He wasn’t looking at me.
He was staring past me at Julian.
The color drained from his face so completely he looked like a ghost. His breathing became ragged. For a terrifying second, I thought he was having a heart attack.
“No…” he whispered. “No, this can’t be.”
The music faltered. Guests began murmuring. Julian’s smile faded. He took a hesitant step forward.
Dad raised a trembling hand, pointing directly at my fiancé.
“HOW CAN IT BE YOU?” His voice cracked through the church like thunder. “I WAS SURE YOU HAD DISAPPEARED THIRTY YEARS AGO!”
The entire congregation went dead silent.
I felt the ground tilt beneath my feet. “Dad… what are you talking about? Do you know Julian?”
Dad’s eyes never left Julian’s face. “His real name isn’t Julian Moreau. It’s Marcus. Marcus Whitlock.”
Julian — or Marcus — stood perfectly still at the altar. His expression shifted from confusion to something colder. Something calculated.
He looked straight at me.
