The fifth times the charm

ELARA

  The wedding dress cost more than a luxury car, a masterpiece of French lace and hand-stitched pearls that weighed heavy against my skin. But as I stared at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the bridal suite, I didn’t just see a bride.

  I saw a survivor.

  I pressed my palm against the cool glass, tracing the outline of my own jaw. My eyes were bright, too bright, shimmering with unshed tears that I refused to let fall. If I cried now, I would ruin the makeup that had taken two hours to perfect. But the emotion was there, a thick, suffocating knot in my throat.

  Four times, I thought, the number echoing in my head like a curse.

  I had tried to give my heart away four times before today. And four times, it had been handed back to me in pieces.

  First was Jason, the high school sweetheart who swore he’d love me forever, until he realized "forever" didn't include the time I spent studying to take over my family’s business. He left me for a girl who had no ambition and plenty of free time.

  Then there was Liam, the tortured artist. I funded his gallery, bought his supplies, and whispered encouragement when he was depressed. He repaid me by sleeping with his model on the opening night I paid for.

  Third was Marcus. The corporate shark. I thought he was my equal. I thought we were a power couple. It turned out he was only dating me to get insider information on my father’s company. The merger failed, and so did we.

  And then… there was Jax.

  I shivered, the air conditioning in the hotel suddenly feeling like ice. Jax had been the worst. Ex-Number-Four. He hadn't just broken my heart; he had tried to break my spirit. He was volatile, a man with a gambling debt I didn't know about until he started "borrowing" my jewelry. When I finally found the courage to kick him out, he had screamed that no one would ever love a workaholic control freak like me.

  For a long time, I believed him.

  But then came Mark.

  My reflection smiled back at me, the fear melting away. Mark was different. He was gentle. He was soft-spoken. He didn't have money, but he had a kind heart. When we met, he was drowning in student loans and driving a car held together by duct tape. I didn’t care. I saw the way he looked at me—like I was the sun, not just an ATM.

  I had rebuilt him. I paid off the loans, I used my connections to launch his logistics firm. I put his name on the deeds to our new house, not because I had to, but because I wanted him to feel like a man, not a subordinate.

  Today, I wasn't just marrying a man. I was marrying my victory. I was proving to the universe that I could be loved.

  "Stop holding your breath, Elara. You’re going to pass out before you get to the altar, and I am not catching you."

  I turned. Sarah was standing in the doorway, looking fierce in her maid-of-honor gown. She was holding two crystal flutes of champagne, her dark eyes scanning me with that laser-focus only a best friend of ten years possesses.

  Sarah had been there for all of it. She held my hair when I vomited after Jason. She burned Liam’s paintings in a trash can. She was the one who called the security team to throw Jax out.

  "I’m not holding my breath," I lied, accepting the glass she offered. My hand trembled slightly.

  "You are," Sarah said, her voice softening. She stepped closer, fixing a stray curl that had fallen from my updo. "You’re thinking about them. The Gallery of Rogues."

  "I’m just… I can’t believe it’s actually happening," I whispered, the vulnerability finally cracking my voice. "No drama. No screaming matches. Just… peace. Mark is safe, Sarah. He’s safe."

  Sarah hesitated. I saw a flicker of shadow in her eyes. She had never fully warmed up to Mark. She thought he was too eager to let me pay for dinner, too quick to accept the keys to the Porsche I bought him. But she tolerated him because she saw how happy he made me.

  "He better be," Sarah said darkly, taking a sip of her drink. "Because if he messes this up, I won’t just burn his paintings. I know where he sleeps. And I have a very sharp set of knives."

  We both laughed, the sound breaking the tension. It was a joke—or at least, mostly a joke. Sarah was my ride-or-die. My sister in everything but blood.

  "To the last first date," Sarah toasted, clinking her glass against mine.

  "To the rest of my life," I answered.

  A sharp, frantic knock on the door interrupted us.

  The heavy oak door creaked open, and the wedding coordinator stuck her head in. Her face was flushed, her headset askew. "Miss Elara? We have a situation with the transport."

  My stomach dropped. "What situation?"

  "The vintage Rolls Royce," she said, wringing her hands. "The engine overheated a mile out. It’s dead on the highway."

  "I’ll drive her," Sarah said immediately, reaching for her purse. "My car is in the valet."

  "No!" the coordinator interjected quickly. "The groom… Mr. Mark, he already handled it. He sent a private transport. It’s waiting at the side entrance. He insisted. He said he didn't want Miss Elara to be seen by the guests before the ceremony."

  I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "See?" I looked at Sarah. "He’s handling it. He’s taking charge. He wants everything to be perfect."

  Sarah frowned, her instincts clearly pricking. "I don't like it. I should go with you."

  "You can't," I said, pushing her gently toward the main hallway. "You’re the Maid of Honor. You need to go to the chapel and keep an eye on things." I'll meet you there. Also, you know you'll pick up your mum -my godmother - on your way. I don't want her to be late on my big day.

  Sarah wavered. She looked at me, then at the door. "Elara…"

  "Go," I commanded, forcing a smile I hoped looked confident. "It’s just a ten-minute ride. I’ll see you at the altar. I promise."

  Sarah sighed, defeated. She hugged me tight, crushing the tulle of my dress. "Okay. But if you’re one minute late, I’m sending the SWAT team."

  "Deal."

  I watched her walk away, her heels clicking on the marble floor. If I had known that was the last time I would see her for three years, I would have fallen to my knees and begged her to stay. I would have screamed until my throat bled.

  But I didn't know. I just turned and walked toward the service elevator.

  The side entrance of the hotel was quiet, away from the paparazzi and the guests. The summer heat hit me like a physical blow as I stepped outside, thick and humid.

  A vehicle was idling by the curb.

  It wasn't a luxury sedan. It was a black SUV, boxy and utilitarian, with windows tinted so dark they looked like oil slicks. The engine hummed with a low, aggressive growl.

  I paused on the bottom step. A strange prickle of unease danced down my spine. It felt… wrong. Not bridal. Not Mark.

  Don't be a diva, Elara, I scolded myself. The Rolls broke down. He did the best he could on short notice.

  My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from Mark.

  My Love: Sorry about the car. Just get in. The driver has strict instructions. Can't wait to make you my wife.

  The text soothed the jagged edge of my panic. He was thinking of me.

  I walked to the car. The rear door clicked open, but the driver didn't get out to help me with my dress. I had to bundle the yards of expensive lace into my arms and awkwardly climb into the backseat.

  "To St. Peter's Chapel, please," I said, settling into the leather seat.

  The air conditioning inside was freezing, a sharp contrast to the heat outside. The interior smelled faint of stale pine air freshener and… something else. Something metallic.

  The door slammed shut. The lock engaged with a heavy, final thud.

  "We aren't going to the chapel, Elara."

  The voice came from the front passenger seat.

  My heart stopped. The blood drained from my face so fast I felt dizzy. I knew that voice. It was a voice that had haunted my nightmares for a year. A voice I thought I had silenced with a restraining order and a heavy settlement check.

  The figure in the front seat turned slowly.

  He was wearing a cheap suit that strained at the shoulders. His face was rougher than I remembered, his eyes bloodshot, his teeth bared in a grin that was all malice and no humor.

  Jason. Ex-Number-one.

  "You..." The word came out as a strangled gasp. I scrambled backward, pressing myself against the door, my fingernails clawing at the leather. "What are you doing here? How did you—"

  "Don't struggle, babe. You’ll wrinkle the dress," Jason laughed, the sound scraping against my nerves like sandpaper. He held up a black object in his hand. A taser. The little blue light hummed with electricity.

  "Let me out!" I screamed, pounding on the window. "Driver! Stop the car! This man is a criminal!"

  The driver didn't flinch. He just merged onto the highway, driving smoothly, as if he were taking me to a picnic.

  "He can't hear you," Jason said, leaning over the console. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on the diamond necklace Mark had given me yesterday—a necklace I had paid for. "And even if he could, he works for me. Well, technically... we both work for Mark now."

  The world tilted on its axis.

  "What?" I whispered. My brain refused to process the words. "Mark? No. Mark loves me. Mark is waiting for me."

  Jason chuckled, shaking his head with mock pity. "Oh, Elara. You rich girls are so easy. You think you can buy love? You think because you paid off Mark’s debts and built his company, he’s your puppy?"

  He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. He turned it toward me.

  It was a livestream. The camera was shaky, but the image was clear. It showed the interior of St. Peter's Chapel. The guests were seated. The flowers were perfect.

  And there, standing at the altar, was Mark.

  But he wasn't looking at his watch, worried about his late bride. He was smiling. He was holding hands with a woman in a slim white dress. I recognized her. It was the receptionist from the logistics company I had built for him. The one he had hired.

  "Mark..." I choked out, the pain hitting me harder than any physical blow.

  On the screen, Mark leaned down and kissed the woman. The guests applauded.

  "He never wanted the marriage, Elara," Jason said, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. "He just wanted the assets. And thanks to that prenup you were too 'in love' to sign, and the power of attorney you gave him for the 'merger' yesterday... the one you didn't bother to read because you trusted him. He has them."

  "No," I sobbed, tears finally spilling over, ruining the makeup, ruining the dress, ruining my life. "This isn't real."

  "It's real," Jason said. He reached into the backseat. "And now, you’re just at a loose end."

  I kicked out, my heel connecting with his shoulder. I wasn't going to die here. I survived Jax. I survived Liam. I survived Marcus. I would survive this.

  "Let me go!" I shrieked, scrambling backward, my fingernails tearing at the leather as I lunged for the door lock.

  I yanked the handle. Nothing. Child lock.

  Jason lunged over the center console, grabbing a fistful of my veil. He yanked my head back, pinning me against the seat. I screamed, thrashing, knocking the phone he had been holding onto the floorboard.

  The screen was still glowing. Mark’s face was there, crisp and clear. He was adjusting his tie in the mirror of the church vestry, looking calm.

  "Mark!" I screamed at the phone, tears hot on my face. "Mark, tell him to stop! Please!"

  Mark paused. He didn't look at the camera. He just checked his watch, his expression bored.

  "You always wanted a church wedding, Elara. You wanted to be closer to God," Mark said, his voice smooth and cold through the speaker.

  Jason grinned above me, the taser humming to life in his hand.

  "So use this moment wisely," Mark continued, finally glancing at the screen with dead eyes. "Plead for Him to accept your soul. Because this might be your last chance."

  He hung up.