(Amelia POV)
The wedding hall was drowning in white roses.
I stood at the end of the aisle, my arm linked through my uncle's, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack them open. Sunlight poured through stained glass windows, painting the marble floor in shades of gold and crimson. Two hundred guests sat in silk chairs, watching me. Waiting.
I looked at the man at the altar.
David Armstrong stood tall in a black tuxedo, his grey eyes fixed on my face. His dark hair was perfectly styled. His hands were clasped in front of him, but I could see his fingers trembling. He smiled. That soft smile I had fallen in love with. The one with the dimple on his left cheek.
He loves me, I thought. And I love him.
The organ began to play.
I walked forward. Each step felt like floating. The guests smiled. Some cried. Vivian sat in the front row, her honey‑blonde hair catching the light, her smile wide and warm. Mrs. Margaret sat beside her, back straight, expression unreadable.
I reached the altar. David took my hands. His palms were warm. Slightly sweaty.
"You're beautiful," he whispered.
"You're not so bad yourself," I whispered back.
The priest cleared his throat. The guests fell silent.
"Dearly beloved," the priest began, "we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…"
I barely heard the words. I was looking at David. At the way the light touched his face. At the small scar on his eyebrow from the car crash. At the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
"…if anyone has any reason why these two should not be joined in marriage, let them speak now or forever hold their peace."
Silence.
The priest smiled. "Then let us continue—"
The doors at the back of the hall burst open.
Every head turned.
Three police officers stood in the doorway. Their uniforms were dark. Their faces were serious. Behind them, I could see more officers in the hallway. And behind them, the flashing red and blue lights of police cars reflected off the windows of the mansion.
The lead officer stepped forward. His boots clicked on the marble floor.
"Amelia Campbell?"
My blood turned cold.
"Yes?"
"You are under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Armstrong."
Gasps. Whispers. Someone screamed.
My hands slipped from David's. I looked at him. His face had gone pale. His grey eyes were wide, confused.
"David," I whispered. "I didn't—"
"You have the right to remain silent," the officer continued. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…"
He kept talking, but I could not hear him. The room was spinning. The roses blurred. The faces of the guests became smudges of color.
"David," I said again. "Please. Say something."
He looked at me. Then at the officers. Then at his mother, who was shaking her head. Then at Vivian, who had tears streaming down her cheeks.
"She killed Rebecca," Vivian sobbed. "I saw her."
My heart stopped.
"That's a lie," I said. "David, that's a lie. You know me. You know I would never—"
"Step forward, Miss Campbell," the officer said.
I felt hands on my arms. The officers were pulling me away from the altar. Away from David. Away from the white roses and the stained glass and the life I had dreamed of.
"David!"
He did not move.
"Please!" I screamed. "Tell them! I didn't do anything!"
His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists. For a moment, I thought he would speak. I thought he would save me.
Then he opened his mouth.
"She has mental health issues," David said loudly. "She's been unstable for months. I tried to get her help, but she refused. Please. Don't take her to jail. Take her to a psychiatric hospital. She needs treatment, not prison."
I stopped struggling.
I stared at him.
The man I loved.
The man I trusted.
The man who was sending me away.
"David," I whispered. "What are you doing?"
He would not look at me.
The officers hesitated. David's lawyer stepped forward, speaking in low, urgent tones. Papers were exchanged. Nods were given.
"Fine," the officer said. "We'll transport her to Westbrook Psychiatric Facility. But she will be held pending investigation."
They dragged me down the aisle.
I looked back over my shoulder. David stood at the altar, alone. His mother was speaking to him. Vivian was crying. The guests were whispering.
He still would not look at me.
The doors closed.
The last thing I saw was the white roses, scattered across the floor where I had dropped my bouquet.
---
The van was cold.
I sat in the back, handcuffed to a metal bar. My wedding dress was torn at the hem. My veil had fallen off somewhere. I had stopped crying.
"Why?" I whispered to no one.
The officer across from me said nothing.
I closed my eyes.
I thought of the first time I saw David. The emergency room. The blood on his eyebrow. The way he had said, "You have beautiful hands." I thought of the fire. Rebecca's face, trapped under the burning beam. The smoke. The heat. The blow to my head.
I thought of Vivian's smile.
And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I had been set up.
The van turned a corner. The city lights of Los Angeles blurred past the small window.
I pressed my hands against my stomach. The motion of the van made me nauseous. But this was different. This wasn't just stress or fear. I had been feeling it for weeks. The nausea in the mornings. The tenderness in my breasts. The way certain smells turned my stomach.
No, I told myself. It's just the wedding. Just everything.
But I was a doctor. I had delivered dozens of babies. I knew the signs.
I counted backward. My last period. Six weeks ago. Maybe seven.
My heart stopped.
Pregnant.
I was pregnant.
David's child. Growing inside me, right now, unaware that its father had just called me crazy in front of two hundred people.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry.
Instead, I pressed my hand harder against my stomach and made a silent promise.
I will protect you. No matter what.
The van kept driving. The lights of the city grew smaller and smaller until there was nothing but darkness and the sound of my own breathing.
---
End of Chapter 1