The church was too quiet.

Too polished, too polite—like the whole place was holding its breath. Slade stood in the back, sunglasses on despite the stained glass glow, arms crossed over a suit he didn’t belong in. He hadn’t come for prayers. He came for a promise.

The moment dragged until the priest cleared his throat. “If anyone here objects to this union—”

Slade moved.

Not a word. Just the echo of his boots down the aisle, slicing through gasps and whispers. The groom stammered something. The bride didn’t speak—she didn’t have to. Her eyes were already on Slade, wide and wild, like she’d been waiting for this.

By the time he reached her, the groom had backed up. Smart man.

Slade didn’t bother with explanations. He just held out his hand.

She didn’t hesitate.

And then they were gone—out the door, into the chaos, leaving shattered decor and scandal in their wake.

Because when Slade objected… he meant it.