Oops! The Escort I Dragged to the Altar is a Ruthless CEO

Serena's POV

The silence stretched like a taut wire in the cathedral.

I stood at the altar, my white gown cascading around me in waves of silk and tulle, and watched Marcus's smile slowly falter. The priest had just asked if I would take this man to be my lawfully wedded husband, and the words had hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands remained steady. I had planned this moment for weeks.

"Do you, Serena, take Marcus to be your—"

"No."

The word fell like a glass shattering on marble. Gasps rippled through the pews. Marcus's eyes went wide, his face draining of color.

"What are you doing?" he hissed through clenched teeth, his smile frozen in place.

I reached into the hidden pocket of my gown and pulled out my phone. With trembling fingers—steadied only by rage—I tapped the screen.

"Actually, I have a question for you." I turned to face the congregation, my heels clicking as I pivoted. "Do any of you take Marcus as a faithful husband?"

The cathedral's massive projection screen flickered to life.

The footage was grainy but unmistakable. Marcus's bedroom. The wedding dress I had painstakingly chosen

—my "something borrowed"—thrown across the bed. And there, tangled in white sheets that should have been reserved for our wedding night, was my maid of honor. Her platinum hair spilled across the pillow that

Marcus had bought for me when I complained about neck pain.

The congregation inhaled as one.

Marcus's bare back flexed as he moved above her, his voice thick with words I had never heard him speak to me. "You're so much better than she'll ever be."

The recording played for exactly twelve seconds. Then I cut the feed.

"Serena, you're being ridiculous!" Marcus's composure cracked completely now. He lunged toward me, but I stepped back, my veil catching the light. "You can't just—"

"I can. And I am."

"You think anyone else will want you after this?" His laugh was desperate and ugly. "Without me, you're nothing. Your family's company is weeks from bankruptcy. I'm the only reason anyone shows up to your pathetic little events!"

A chill ran down my spine. He wasn't wrong about the money. My father's shipping empire was drowning, and Marcus's family had promised a lifeline.

But dignity, I had learned, was worth more than solvency.

I hiked up my skirts and descended the altar steps, my heart pounding so hard I could taste metal. The guests sat frozen, some covering their mouths, others whispering behind their programs. My mother's face was a mask of horror. My father looked ready to disown me on the spot.

Fine. Let them.

I moved toward the back of the cathedral where shadows pooled thick and deep. The escort agency had confirmed the pickup. The man was supposed to be waiting near the rear exit—tall, dark-haired, professional.

Someone who could play the part of a jilted bride's revenge fantasy for the evening.

I spotted him in the corner, partially hidden by a marble pillar. Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Eyes that caught the candlelight and held it.

Perfect.

I marched straight up to him, grabbed his silk tie, and pulled.

Our mouths crashed together. The kiss was punishing and desperate, fueled by weeks of pretending I didn't smell cheap perfume on Marcus's shirts. The stranger stiffened for half a heartbeat—then his hand came up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers sliding into the intricate twists of my hair.

He tasted like whiskey and something darker. Cedar and pine. Forest air after rain.

I pulled back just enough to reach into my bouquet and retrieve Marcus's ring—the one I had meant to slide onto his finger. I slammed it against the stranger's chest.

"Marry me."

His eyebrow lifted slightly. His lips curved.

"Right now?" His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through my palm, still pressed flat against his chest.

"Right now."

I dragged him toward the altar. The priest stood frozen, his homily still clutched in his trembling hands.

Marcus had stepped back, his face purple with rage, his mother clutching her pearls like a lifeline.

"This is insane," Marcus spat. "You can't just—"

"Watch me."

I positioned myself at the altar once more, this time with a man I had known for thirty seconds. The stranger stood beside me, his presence impossibly steady, his hand still resting at the small of my back.

The priest cleared his throat. "I... I don't..."

"Ask him," I commanded.

The priest's eyes darted between us. "Do... do you take this woman—"

"I do."

The words came instantly. No hesitation. No trembling.

Marcus let out a strangled sound. "You can't possibly—"

"I already did." I turned to the stranger. "Your turn. The vows."

He looked down at me, and something flickered in his dark eyes. Amusement, perhaps. Or something sharper.

"Serena." He said my name like he was tasting it. "Do you take me to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

He smiled then, slow and dangerous. "Well, then."

The priest fumbled with his papers. "D-do you... do you take this woman to be your wife?"

The stranger's arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me flush against him. The motion was fluid and possessive, his palm spread wide across the silk of my gown. I could feel the heat of him through the fabric.

He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear, and I felt the reverberation of his laugh before I heard it.

"I do."

And then his mouth found mine again, swallowing whatever sound I might have made.