ene

ites whispered furiously. The buzzing sou

ght, leaning over to my father Richard, franticall

er face, pretending to cry, but the corners of

had their telephoto lenses aimed at the altar, hu

walls went pitch black. A collective gasp echoed through th

tar, the milliondollar custom ice sculpture had been altered – Blake's crisis team had swiftly draped a velvet cloth over the origi

lief. Eleanor's head snapped up. She stared at the magical screen. All the blood

l members were spamming him, demanding to know if a

ding backlight framed two tall silhou

sounded like machinegun fire. As the cameras focused, the entire hal

. It was Blake Wiggins – the phantom emperor of the w

ly powerful that the frontrow guests instinctively shrank back in their seats. I wore a diamo

le. Her mouth hung open in pure shock. As Blake and I walked down the red carpet, the guests began to

sle to stop us. Richard grabbed her wrist and yan

nds shaking so badly he nearly dropped his sacred text. He stammered,

freezing glare. "

though it cracked. "Do you, Blake Wiggins, take

d Blake was just standing in to save

ystal. His voice was calm, deliberate, a

his day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in si

lost their minds. The shutter noise became de

n, take Blake Wiggins to be

n, my voice cle

d

the ultimate symbol of the Branch family matriarch. He took my left hand and slid the ring onto my finger. Then he stepped closer,