By Chung Yu Kwok
“Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
The woman, who had lingered silently at the back of the church like a pallid ghost in her white three piece suit, suddenly stood. Around her, guests cowered away in fear. Her attire - comparable to a pink sundress at a funeral - had spelled out nothing but trouble from the very start of this horrid, extravagant affair of a wedding. The polished edges of her pearly stilettos gleamed under the lights as she took a step out into the centre of the aisle, and white rose petals wilted beneath her feet.
“I object,” she said.
The bride rolled her eyes. “Oh, of course you do,” she said sourly. “What is it now?”
“This actress, this witch, this liar,” the woman announced to the crowd, “is already married.”A collective gasp. The bride rolled her eyes again and released her flustered groom’s hands. He was a young man in his twenties, still looking to catch his big break in the music industry while he worked a humble job at the local shoe store in the hope of finding the Cinderella to his Prince Charming. Well, he had certainly found her now, and the clock was just about to strike twelve.
“Who are you?” he demanded weakly, jabbing a shaky finger at the wedding crasher.
“I’m her daughter.” Another gasp.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” muttered the bride, but the contemptuous sneer on her face proved otherwise. “I’m surprised you made it through the door. Don’t demons turn to ash on holy ground?” She shot a glare at the priest, who only cleared his throat.
“Miss Blanc,” he began.
“That’s not her name,” the woman interrupted.
“You’re right! It shouldn’t be, because had you not so rudely interrupted my special day, I would have become a Mrs just about thirty seconds ago.”
“Yes, but it’s a different story now, isn’t it? After all, no one knew you already had a husband - until just about thirty seconds ago.” Above the guests’ increasingly audible agitation and incredulity, the woman called out, “You’re welcome!”
“I don’t have a husband yet, thanks to you,” snapped the bride. “And you’re surely deluding yourself if you think you look young enough to even remotely resemble a daughter of mine.”
“Stepdaughter, because you married that sick old bastard that calls himself my father!”
“Darling,” said the bride, with those narrowed snake eyes, “I’m afraid you’ve lost the right to call him your Daddy for quite some time now. He disowned you, if you recall.”
“Miss Blanc,” repeated the priest. “I cannot, in good faith, marry you to another man while-”
“Damn you and your faith. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten married at a church.” The bride smoothed her dress over and tossed the veil over her shoulder. “Look,” she said with an apologetic frown, “I’ve had my fair share of unfortunate relationships. But I’ve turned over a new leaf, and I’d like to start over again with the love of my life.” She caressed her groom’s cheek with a light, wistful brush of her knuckles. “See the sacrifices I make! This is the face I’ll wake up to for the next thirty years of my life, and you dare to insinuate that I don’t love him?”
“This isn’t about love,” the woman forced out through gritted teeth. “This is about your crimes. I’ve spoken to the police, and the law will come for you - if not for bigamy, then murder!”
The crowd gasped once more. The bride wished they would stop, but she gasped with them regardless. “Murder!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, yes. I’ve hired investigators. This is a seasonal event for you, isn’t it? Marry some poor old geezer with enough figures in his bank account and wait around until he drops dead so you can collect the leftovers. You’re a con artist.”
“You told me you were a singer,” the groom stammered.
“She can be a singer and a con artist. They aren’t mutually exclusive events.” The woman’s lip curled. “And now you’re here trying to marry another one of your victims - though I can’t for the life of me see why you picked this snivelling brat - while my father is confined to a hospital bed. You’re a disgrace, you are.”
“You aren’t the first that has tried to defame me,” said the bride, with an unexpected serenity. “In front of all my friends and family, too.”
“By contract, maybe.” The woman snatched the closest guest, who cowered. Shouts of alarm echoed across the room. “Tell me, does she pay more than the Royal Shakespeare Company?”
“That’s my aunt!” whimpered the groom.
A sudden ringing vibrated beneath all the buzz and clamour, and every guest fumbled for their phone. The bride threw her hands into the air. “Who forgot to turn off their mobile this time?”
The woman lifted her phone out of her pocket. All the colour drained from her face as she stared at the screen.
In the distance, the clock struck twelve, each gong thudding through the sudden silence.
The bride perked up, a vicious glint in her eyes of something even stronger than joy - liberation. She blinked innocently. “Oh! Looks like it’s my payday. I believe you have a funeral to attend. And as for me…” She gripped the groom’s hands and flashed everyone a great smile. “I do.”