His sharp blue eyes locked onto mine, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look afraid. He didn’t even look surprised.
That sent a chill down my spine.
Before I could demand an explanation, my father appeared beside us, his face dark with something unreadable. He barely acknowledged Duke before gripping my arm and pulling me aside, leading me toward the shadowed corner of the church.
“We need to talk,” he muttered under his breath.
I barely kept up with his pace. “Dad, what the hell is going on?”
He exhaled sharply, glancing toward the chaos outside before looking back at me. "Those people outside… they're not just protesters, Mi— Britney. They're grieving families. Farmers."
I frowned. "Farmers?"
"Their loved ones were killed," he said quietly. "And word on the streets is that Duke Trayson is responsible."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What?”
My father didn’t respond. Instead, he let his words hang between us, heavy and suffocating.
Duke. A murderer.
It didn’t make sense.
I turned my head slowly, my gaze landing on Duke, who was still standing near the altar, watching me with a gaze that was impossible to decipher. His posture remained relaxed, unaffected by the uproar outside.
As if this was nothing new.
As if he had expected this.
A sick feeling twisted in my stomach.
Before I could press for more answers, the doors of the church shook violently as something banged against them from the outside. Guests gasped, some already rushing toward the exits. Security guards shouted orders, their guns drawn as they pushed back against the crowd.
"We need to leave," my father said urgently.
I barely turned to face him before another familiar hand wrapped around my wrist.
Duke.
"We're going to the rooftop," he said simply.
I stared at him, my mind still reeling. "Duke, are you even going to explain what's happening? Why are people saying you—"
"It doesn't matter right now." His grip tightened slightly. "You're my wife now. That means your safety comes first."
I didn’t get the chance to argue.
Duke was already pulling me toward a hidden staircase behind the altar. My father followed closely behind, his expression grim. The steps were steep, spiraling higher and higher, and my wedding dress made it even harder to move.
By the time we reached the rooftop, my legs were burning, my breath coming in shallow gasps. But all of that disappeared when I saw the helicopter.