Capítulo 1: The Death Certificate at the Altar

The cathedral’s organ fell silent as the massive oak doors swung inward with a groan. Three hundred guests turned in unison.

Framed against the stormy sky, a woman in a severe black suit stood alone. Her ice-blonde hair was cropped short, her eyes the color of a frozen lake.

In her hand, a sheet of parchment—the kind that ends lives. “I object,” she said, stepping forward.

The heels of her Louboutins struck the marble floor like a metronome of doom. Cameras from the global livestream swiveled to capture every angle.

This was the wedding of the year—Ethan Cole marrying Madison Vane, the socialite—and now it had become a spectacle. Ethan, at the altar in a Brioni tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, visibly stiffened.

Madison, draped in white silk, clutched his arm. “Who is that?” she hissed.

Emily Davis stopped ten feet from the altar and turned the document so the cameras could read: CERTIFICATE OF DEATH. Her name was typed beneath in clinical font.

Date of death: yesterday. Cause: accidental drowning.

“This is the death certificate Ethan filed for me,” Emily announced, her voice amplified by the cathedral’s acoustics. “He told the world I was dead.

But I’m not. And I have proof he planned to make it real.” She raised a tablet, and the giant screens flanking the altar flicked to life.

Grainy security footage showed Ethan and Madison in a hotel room, his hand on her thigh. Madison’s voice: “Once the death certificate is processed, we can move the body.

No one will suspect a boating accident.” Ethan’s reply: “Elaine will forge the coroner’s report. Jason will dispose of the evidence.

By next week, Davis Group is ours.” A collective gasp swept the nave. In the front pew, Elaine, with her pearl choker, and Jason, with his silver crew cut, exchanged panicked glances.

Emily swiped the screen. Bank statements cascaded: $12 million to a Cayman account, $5.6 million to a shell company in Panama, all authorized by Ethan using Davis Group funds.

“He was emptying my company while plotting my murder.” She looked directly into the main camera. “But I used to work for Interpol.

I’ve been building this case for six months. Every conversation, every transaction—recorded.” A signal.

The side doors burst open, and tactical FBI agents swarmed the altar. “FBI!

Nobody move!” The lead agent, a woman with a tight ponytail, cuffed Ethan’s wrists behind his back. “Ethan Cole, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, embezzlement, and racketeering.” Madison shrieked as another agent pulled her away.

“You can’t do this! I’m pregnant!” she screamed.

Emily’s expression flickered for a heartbeat—pregnant?—but she quickly masked it. Elaine and Jason were dragged from their pews, the lawyer sputtering about legal representation, the security chief silent and grim.

As the agents pushed Ethan past Emily, he lunged toward her, face contorted. “You think you’ve won, you bitch?

The boss will tear you apart. He’ll destroy everything you love.” His voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

“This isn’t over.” Emily met his eyes, unblinking. “It never was.” Ethan was hauled away, still shouting.

The cameras followed him out, leaving Emily alone on the altar steps, surrounded by stunned guests and wilting flowers. She faced the congregation, a ghost at her own funeral, and the world watched as her lips curved into the faintest smile.

But beneath her composure, her mind was already racing. The boss.

Who was he? And how deep did this conspiracy run?

The livestream cut to a graphic: “Wedding Massacre: Heiress Alive, Groom Arrested.” And in a dark control room miles away, a man in shadow watched the feed and slowly crushed a cigarette.