The priest cleared his throat, his voice trembling under the heavy, mocking atmosphere of the cathedral. “Lando, do you take Clara Valderama to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Julian leaned forward from the front pew, a smug, camera-ready grin plastered across his face as he nudged his new wife. He nudged the reporters to bring the lenses closer, waiting for the broken, stammering submission of a man he had bought for the price of a hot meal.

But Lando didn’t stammer.

Instead, he slowly stood up straight. The hunched, trembling posture of a beaten street beggar completely vanished, replaced by an imposing, military-grade stature that made the priest stagger back a step. Lando reached up, pulled the tangled, messy wig from his head, and used a clean linen handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the theatrical grime from his jawline, revealing a sharp, fiercely aristocratic face.

“I do,” Lando announced, his voice dropping into a deep, resonant, and effortlessly authoritative baritone that echoed like a thunderclap through the silent cathedral.

The laughter in the pews died instantly.

“What… what is this?” Julian stammered, standing up from his seat, his face losing all of its color as he stared at the man on the altar. “Lando, you piece of trash, stick to the script! I paid you to crawl!”

Lando turned around slowly, his piercing, icy gray eyes locking onto Julian’s panicked gaze.

part2