She Slapped the Mafia Boss Before 200 Wedding Guests — Then He Stopped the Ceremony, Opened Her Father’s Sealed Contract, and Asked Who Had Forged Her Consent

And then they saw who was on his arm.

Me.

I wore a backless emerald-green velvet gown that clung to my silhouette like liquid poison, my hair swept up into an elegant chignon, and a diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet sparkling on my wrist—a gift Aiden had quietly handed me before we stepped out of the limousine.

All eyes locked onto us. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through tall grass. Wasn’t the wedding called off? Weren’t they enemies?

Aiden’s hand rested firmly, possessively, at the small of my back. His touch grounded me, radiating heat through the heavy velvet.

Julian Vance stood near the center of the room, holding a glass of champagne, surrounded by a group of union bosses and city councilmen. When he saw us, the glass in his hand nearly slipped. His polite, plastered smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, smoothing his silver-streaked hair and walking forward.

"Aiden! Elena!" Vance’s voice was rich, oily, and dripping with false warmth. "What a delightful surprise. Given the... rumors from the cathedral two days ago, I didn't expect to see you two grace us with your presence."

Aiden didn't smile. His face remained that impenetrable, architectural mask. "Rumors tend to get exaggerated, Julian. Especially by people with too much time and too many failing investments."

Vance’s eyes flicked to me, a flash of pure malice hidden beneath his polite facade. "Ah, the bride herself. You look stunning, Elena, considering the ordeal your family has been through. I trust your father is recovering from... the shock of the ceremony's pause?"

I tilted my chin up, channeling every ounce of cold composure I had learned from watching men like Aiden operate. "My father is fine, Mr. Vance. Though I imagine he’ll feel a lot better once we recover the assets that were illegally siphoned from his accounts by foreign shell corporations."

Vance’s smile froze completely. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard my wife," Aiden interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a chilling, lethal weight that caused the surrounding guests to quietly step backward. "Vanguard Holdings has some explaining to do. And my legal team—along with federal prosecutors who take a very dim view of forged corporate consents—will be paying your offices a visit bright and early Monday morning."

"You have no proof—" Vance started, his face flushing a mottled red.

"I have everything I need," Aiden said smoothly, lifting a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray, though he didn't drink from it. "And Julian? If you ever go near my family—or my wife—again, the Commission won't even find enough of you to bury in Lake Michigan."

Vance glared at us, hate burning in his eyes, but he was surrounded by too many witnesses, too many armed guards stationed discreetly by the exits, and too much impending ruin. He bowed stiffly, muttered an excuse, and melted back into the crowd.

As he walked away, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I turned to Aiden, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Was that reckless?"