Chapter 2 - The Face of the Damned
The uninvited guest did not break her stride. She moved with a terrifying, mechanical grace, ignoring the horrified stares, the cruel mutters, and the recoil of silk-clad women pulling their skirts away as if she carried a contagion.
The camera of public perception zoomed in on her profile.
The right side of her face was smooth, flawless, and striking—a portrait of tragic beauty. But as she turned her head toward the altar, the brutal reality was exposed to the blinding glare of the chandeliers. Thick, corded keloid scars tracked up from her collarbone, eating into her jawline and pulling slightly at the edge of her right cheek.
Her dark hazel eyes were devoid of panic, fear, or malice. They were the eyes of a soldier who had crossed through the gates of hell, died in the ash, and walked back out out of pure, unyielding stubbornness.
At the front of the room, Chloe’s smile shattered into a grimace of pure disgust. "Who invited this freak?" she hissed under her breath, grabbing Marcus’s forearm with sharp, manicured nails. "Marcus, tell security to throw her out into the street! She’s ruining our photos!"
Marcus didn't hear her.
He stood frozen on the raised dais, his crystal champagne flute slipping from his numb fingers. The glass shattered against the marble step, splashing golden liquid across the hem of Chloe’s lace train.
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His face drained of all color, turning a ghastly, translucent white. His eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing disbelief as he stared at the scarred brunette walking slowly up the white carpet toward him.
"No..." Marcus whispered, his voice catching in his dry throat. "It's... it can't be..."
