But as they approached the entrance, they hit a solid, immovable brick wall.
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the closed ballroom doors were four incredibly large, heavily muscled security guards wearing sharp black suits and earpieces.
One of the guards, a man who looked like he chewed gravel for breakfast, held up a large, calloused hand, physically blocking my father’s path.
“Excuse me, sir,” the guard said, his voice carrying clearly through the audio feed on my tablet. “This is a private, closed event. I need to see your IDs to check against the guest list.”
My father’s face instantly contorted with arrogant outrage. He practically threw his driver’s license at the man.
“Check the list?” Richard roared, his face turning a familiar, mottled red. “Are you out of your mind? I paid for this damn party! I am the father of the bride! Step aside immediately so my daughter, Chloe, can go inside and prepare for her processional walk!”
The security guard didn’t flinch. He calmly looked at the ID, then looked at the digital tablet in his hand. He shook his head coldly.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the guard stated, devoid of any customer service warmth. “But your names are not on the approved guest list for this event.”
“Not on the list?!” my mother shrieked, stepping forward, her face aghast. “That’s impossible! We organized this!”
“Furthermore,” the guard continued, raising his voice to cut her off. “According to my briefing, this event was one hundred percent fully funded and privately contracted by Mr. Ethan Reed. Your names have been explicitly flagged on a blacklist. You are considered trespassers by the host. You need to turn around and leave the premises immediately.”
Chloe’s jaw physically dropped open. She looked at the massive security guard, then looked down at her ridiculous white dress, the rhinestone tiara on her head suddenly slipping slightly askew.
“What?” Chloe shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly in the hotel lobby. “That is a lie! That dirt-poor loser doesn’t have any money! Maya is paying for this! Let me in!”
Chapter 4: The Fatal Sentence
My father, completely unhinged by the public denial of his authority, completely lost his temper.
“You stupid rent-a-cop!” Richard bellowed, stepping forward and aggressively banging his fists against the thick glass of the ballroom doors, desperately trying to see inside. The loud, chaotic banging immediately drew the attention of dozens of hotel guests and tourists walking through the lobby. People stopped, pulling out their phones to record the spectacle.
“Call Maya out here right now!” my father screamed, spittle flying against the glass. “I’ll tear her apart! I’ll ruin her! Open these damn doors!”
The security guards immediately closed ranks, two of them stepping forward to physically restrain my father if he tried to push past them.
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany and glass doors slowly, silently clicked unlocked. They swung open outward.
But it wasn’t me who stepped out into the lobby.
It was Ethan.
He looked absolutely immaculate in a bespoke, perfectly tailored black tuxedo. He didn’t look like a “dirt-poor loser.” He looked like a man who commanded empires. He radiated a cold, absolute, and terrifying power as he stepped between the security guards, looking down at my pathetic, screaming family.
My father pointed a trembling, furious finger directly into Ethan’s face.
“What trick did you use, you punk?!” Richard demanded, his chest heaving. “Give us back our wedding! Step aside right now so Chloe can get inside!”
Ethan didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his hands defensively. He simply slipped his hands casually into the pockets of his tailored trousers, looking at my parents and my sister with an expression of profound, unadulterated pity and disgust.
“Your five-thousand-dollar deposit,” Ethan began, his voice deep, resonant, and carrying clearly over the murmuring crowd of onlookers in the lobby, “was electronically refunded directly to your primary checking account at 8:00 AM this morning.”
My father blinked, thrown off balance by the calm, financial fact.
“If you check your banking app,” Ethan continued smoothly, “you will see that the memo line on the transfer reads: ‘Charity money for failed parents.’“
My mother gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth in horror as several onlookers in the lobby actually laughed out loud at the insult.
Ethan slowly turned his piercing, icy gaze toward Chloe. He looked her up and down, taking in the massive, puffy white gown, the dramatic makeup, and the crooked tiara.
“You look absolutely ridiculous,” Ethan stated, delivering the observation as a clinical fact. Chloe’s face instantly flushed a burning, humiliated crimson.
