The Wedding That Never Was
The guests’ shrieks and the crashing of broken china echoed in the Grand Conservatory. I stumbled forward, my heart pounding in a frantic rhythm, trying to make sense of the pandemonium. Everything felt surreal; the ornate decorations, the elegant guests, the elegant chaos unfolding around me.
Sarah’s grip on my wrist was the only thing tethering me to reality. Her urgency propelled my legs to move even though my mind lagged behind, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what was happening. Had David really planned something sinister for this night? The thought was terrifying, yet as I saw his furious expression, a part of me knew my sister was right.
We burst through the kitchen doors, startling the staff who were busy cleaning and organizing. They looked at us with confusion as we sprinted past. The clatter of pots and the clink of silverware were drowned out by the alarms ringing in my head.
“Where are we going?” I gasped, struggling to keep up with Sarah’s frantic pace.
“Just keep running,” she panted, not slowing down. “We need to get out of here before he…”
Her voice trailed off as we reached the service exit. Sarah pushed the door open, and we were met with the cool night air. It was a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside. I took a moment to breathe, my lungs grateful for the fresh air.
“What did you mean by ‘what he planned for me’?” I demanded once we were a safe distance from the building. My voice trembled with a mix of anger and fear.
Sarah glanced around, ensuring we were alone before speaking. “David… he’s not who you think he is. I found out that he has a history of marrying wealthy women and—”
“And what?” I pressed, fear gripping my heart.
“And making them vanish,” she finished, her voice barely a whisper. “I found evidence that links him to the disappearances of his previous wives. He takes their wealth and then… they just disappear.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. The reality of the situation hit me like a cold wave. My wedding had been a trap, and I had almost walked into it blindly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked, tears brimming in my eyes.
“I tried, but you were so in love with him,” Sarah replied, her voice full of regret. “I wanted to find concrete proof first, but when I saw him watching his watch like he was counting down to something… I had to act.”
I nodded, understanding the impossible position she’d been in. We needed to get far away from here, to a place where David couldn’t reach us. “We need to go to the police,” I said, my voice firmer.
Sarah nodded. “I have everything we need. We just have to get to safety first.”
Together, we ran into the night, leaving behind the shattered remains of a wedding that was never meant to be. The Grand Conservatory, once a symbol of a perfect life, became a stark reminder of how close I’d come to losing everything.
But as we moved forward, fear was replaced by determination. I wasn’t just running away; I was running toward the truth, toward justice. And with Sarah by my side, I knew I had the strength to face whatever came next.
Six Months Earlier
My name is Victoria Ashford, and six months ago, I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world.
I met David Montgomery at a charity gala in Manhattan. I was there representing my family’s foundation—the Ashford Trust, which my late father had established to support arts education. The foundation managed a substantial endowment, and as the sole trustee after my father’s death two years prior, I’d become a regular fixture at New York’s philanthropic events.
David was magnetic. Tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored Tom Ford suit, with silver-streaked hair that gave him a distinguished appearance despite being only forty-two. He approached me during the silent auction, commenting on a painting I’d been admiring.
“Rothko,” he said, his voice smooth and cultured. “A bold choice. Most people here are bidding on the safer investments.”
“I don’t collect art as an investment,” I replied, intrigued by this handsome stranger. “I collect what speaks to me.”
He smiled, and I felt my heart skip. “Then you and I are going to get along very well, Victoria Ashford.”
“You know who I am?”
“Everyone here knows who you are,” he said. “The beautiful heiress running one of the city’s most respected foundations. But I’d like to know the woman behind the name.”
We talked for hours that night. David was charming, attentive, and seemed genuinely interested in my work. He told me he was a consultant for international estates, helping wealthy families manage their assets across borders. He’d lived in London, Paris, and Dubai before settling in New York.
“I’ve been searching for something real,” he said as the evening wound down. “Someone who understands that wealth is a responsibility, not just a privilege.”
I was captivated.
Our courtship was a whirlwind. David sent flowers every day—not roses, but exotic orchids that reminded him of my “rare beauty.” He took me to private gallery showings, intimate dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, weekend trips to Martha’s Vineyard on a friend’s yacht.
My sister Sarah was skeptical from the start.
“He’s too perfect, Vic,” she said over coffee at our usual spot in the West Village. “Nobody is that charming, that attentive, that conveniently available for a woman with a hundred-million-dollar trust fund.”
“You’re being cynical,” I protested. “Not every man is after money.”
“I’m being protective,” Sarah countered. “Have you actually verified anything he’s told you about his background? His business? His past?”
“Why would I need to verify it? He’s been completely open with me.”
Sarah sighed, stirring her latte with more force than necessary. “Vic, I love you. You’re brilliant when it comes to foundation work, but when it comes to reading people… you see the best in everyone. It’s a beautiful quality, but it makes you vulnerable.”
“I’m twenty-nine years old, Sarah. I think I can judge character.”
“Can you?” she asked gently. “Or do you just want so badly to believe that someone could love you for you, not for the Ashford name and money?”
Her words stung because they touched a nerve I’d been trying to ignore. Since my father’s death, I’d been lonely. The foundation work was fulfilling, but it didn’t fill the emptiness of coming home to a silent penthouse apartment every night.
“David loves me,” I insisted.
“I hope you’re right,” Sarah said. “But please, just let me do a background check. Simple due diligence. If he’s legitimate, it won’t show anything concerning.”
“Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “I won’t invade his privacy like that. If you can’t trust my judgment, then maybe you shouldn’t come to the wedding.”
It was a low blow, and Sarah’s face fell. “The wedding? Vic, you’ve only known him three months.”
“When you know, you know,” I replied, echoing what David had said when he proposed the week before—a surprise proposal in Central Park with a stunning five-carat diamond ring.
Sarah didn’t come to our engagement party. She sent a gift with a card that simply read: “I love you. Please be careful.”
I threw myself into wedding planning, determined to prove Sarah wrong. David was supportive but oddly specific about certain details. He wanted the wedding at the Grand Conservatory, a historic venue in Westchester. He insisted we use his colleague’s catering company. He suggested a particular law firm to handle the prenuptial agreement.
“Just practical measures,” he assured me when I questioned the prenup. “We’re both bringing assets into this marriage. It protects us both.”
The prenup was straightforward—or so David’s lawyer explained. In the event of divorce or death, each party would retain their pre-marital assets. But there was a clause I didn’t fully understand about transferring certain management responsibilities of the Ashford Trust to David as my spouse.
“It’s standard,” the lawyer said. “Just ensuring smooth operation of the foundation in case of emergency.”
I signed it, trusting David’s judgment.
The wedding planning consumed the next three months. David was attentive but increasingly controlling about the details. When I wanted to invite Sarah despite our argument, he hesitated.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked. “She’s made her feelings about me very clear. I don’t want her causing a scene on our special day.”
“She’s my sister,” I said. “She’ll be there.”
He relented, but I noticed the tightness around his eyes.
Two weeks before the wedding, Sarah called me. “Vic, I need to see you. It’s urgent. About David.”
“Sarah, please, not now—”
“Just meet me. One hour. If you still want to marry him after we talk, I’ll never bring it up again.”
Something in her voice made me agree.
We met at a small café in Brooklyn, far from our usual haunts. Sarah arrived with a thick folder, her face pale and serious.
“What is this?” I asked.
“The background check I did on David Montgomery,” she said.
“Sarah! I told you not to—”
“Just look at it, Vic. Please.”
I opened the folder reluctantly. Inside were printouts, photographs, news articles. My hands began to shake as I read.
David Montgomery—or David Morrison, or David Montague, depending on which identity he was using—had been married four times before. Four wealthy women, all now missing or dead under suspicious circumstances.
The first wife, Catherine Morrison, disappeared during their honeymoon in the Swiss Alps. Her death was ruled an accident—she’d apparently fallen during a hike. David inherited her estate worth forty million dollars.
The second wife, Lydia Montague, died in a car accident six months after their wedding. The brakes had failed on her Mercedes. David inherited her real estate portfolio and life insurance.
The third wife, Amanda Montgomery, vanished during a sailing trip off the coast of Greece. Her body was never found. David inherited her family’s manufacturing business and sold it within a year.
The fourth wife, Isabelle Morrison, died from an allergic reaction—supposedly accidental, though she’d never had allergies before. David inherited her art collection and investment portfolio.
“This can’t be real,” I whispered.
“It’s all documented,” Sarah said. “But here’s the thing—he’s never been charged with anything. The deaths were ruled accidents or remain unsolved. He’s careful, Vic. Methodical. And now he’s targeted you.”
“Why would he need to?” I protested weakly. “We have a prenup.”
Sarah pulled out another document. “I had a lawyer review the prenup you signed. This clause here,” she pointed, “it doesn’t just give him management responsibilities if something happens to you. Combined with this section here, it essentially transfers control of the Ashford Trust to him upon marriage. And this provision about ’emergency circumstances’ could be interpreted to allow him to access the principal if you were to become incapacitated or die.”
The room spun. “No. His lawyer said it was standard.”
“His lawyer is working for him, Vic. Not you.”
I stared at the documents, my mind racing. “This has to be a mistake. David loves me. He wouldn’t—”
“Look at this,” Sarah interrupted, pulling out surveillance photos. They showed David meeting with a man outside a nondescript building in Queens. “I hired a private investigator. That man is a known forger. They met three times in the past month.”
“Forger of what?”
“We don’t know yet. But Vic, I think he’s planning something for the wedding. The venue he insisted on, the catering company—I’ve been checking into everything. The Grand Conservatory had a fire twenty years ago. It was rebuilt, but the insurance investigation noted suspicious circumstances. The owner? A man named Richard Blackwood who was questioned in connection with several insurance fraud cases.”
My head was pounding. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the wedding venue has a history of convenient accidents. I’m saying David has a pattern of marrying wealthy women who then conveniently die. I’m saying you need to cancel this wedding.”
“I can’t,” I said, my voice breaking. “We’ve sent invitations. The deposits are non-refundable. Everyone I know will be there.”
“Better to be embarrassed than dead,” Sarah said bluntly.
I looked at my sister, seeing the fear and determination in her eyes. “What if you’re wrong? What if this is all coincidence?”
“Then I’ll apologize for the rest of my life,” she said. “But Vic, what if I’m right?”
That conversation haunted me for the next two weeks. I watched David more carefully, looking for signs of deception. But he remained the perfect fiancé—attentive, loving, excited about our future together.
I wanted to believe Sarah was wrong. I wanted to believe that the background check was flawed, that the coincidences were just that—coincidences. I wanted to believe that someone could love me for myself, not for my money.
So I convinced myself Sarah was being paranoid. I told myself that her protective instincts had gone too far. I decided to go through with the wedding.
But I also took precautions. I hired my own security team without telling David. I had my personal lawyer review the prenup—he confirmed Sarah’s interpretation and drafted an amendment I planned to have David sign before the ceremony. I kept Sarah’s evidence folder in a safe place.
The wedding day arrived unseasonably warm for October. The Grand Conservatory looked spectacular—a glass palace filled with flowers, with a string quartet playing classical music. Three hundred guests filled the space, everyone dressed in their finest.
I wore my mother’s wedding dress, altered to fit me. In the bridal suite, surrounded by my bridesmaids, I tried to quiet the doubts screaming in my mind.
“You look beautiful,” my maid of honor said.
“Thank you,” I replied automatically, checking my reflection. The woman in the mirror looked like a bride, but her eyes held a shadow of fear.
Sarah appeared in the doorway. We hadn’t spoken much since our café meeting. She looked stunning in her sage green bridesmaid dress, but her expression was troubled.
“Can we talk?” she asked. “Alone?”
The other bridesmaids left, sensing the tension. Sarah closed the door and turned to me.
“I did more digging,” she said without preamble. “Vic, you can’t go through with this.”
“Sarah, please, not today—”
“The catering company? They’re providing a special champagne toast after the ceremony. I had a friend analyze the ingredient list they submitted to the venue. There’s a compound that could trigger a severe allergic reaction in someone with your specific blood type.”
“I don’t have allergies,” I said.
“Neither did Isabelle,” Sarah replied. “His fourth wife. She developed a sudden, fatal allergic reaction at her own wedding reception.”
My blood ran cold. “That could be a coincidence.”
“It’s not,” Sarah said urgently. “I spoke to Isabelle’s sister yesterday. She told me Isabelle had the same blood type as you—AB negative. Isabelle’s allergic reaction was to a compound that’s deadly to people with that blood type but harmless to everyone else. The same compound that’s in your wedding champagne.”
I sank into a chair, my dress pooling around me. “Why would the catering company agree to poison me?”
“Money,” Sarah said. “The owner has gambling debts. A lot of them. I think David paid him off.”
“You think. You don’t know for certain.”
“No,” Sarah admitted. “I don’t have proof that would stand up in court. But Vic, I have enough to know you’re in danger. Please. Don’t drink the champagne. Better yet, don’t go through with this wedding.”
There was a knock at the door. “Five minutes,” someone called.
I looked at my sister, seeing the desperation in her eyes. And in that moment, I had a choice: trust the man I’d known for six months, or trust the sister who’d protected me my whole life.
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
“That’s not enough,” Sarah insisted.
“It has to be,” I replied. “I can’t just run away. But I promise—I won’t drink the champagne.”
Sarah’s face fell, but she nodded. “Then I’ll be watching. If anything seems wrong, anything at all, I’m getting you out of there.”
The ceremony was beautiful. David stood at the altar looking handsome and emotional. As I walked down the aisle, I searched his face for any sign of malice, any hint that Sarah was right. But I saw only love—or a perfect imitation of it.
We exchanged vows, our voices steady. When David slipped the ring on my finger, I felt the weight of it like a shackle.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant declared.
The guests erupted in applause. David kissed me, and for a moment, I let myself believe everything would be fine.
The reception began immediately after. Waiters circulated with champagne flutes, preparing for the toast. I watched as David accepted a glass, his eyes finding mine across the room.
He raised his glass, and the room quieted. “To my beautiful bride,” he said, his voice carrying. “The love of my life.”
Everyone raised their glasses. A waiter appeared at my elbow with a flute of champagne—the special champagne, I realized, seeing the subtle gold shimmer that distinguished it from the regular bottles.
“To love,” David said, his eyes locked on mine.
The guests echoed: “To love!”
Everyone drank. Everyone except me.
I raised the glass to my lips but didn’t drink. David’s smile faltered slightly. He raised his glass again.
“Darling,” he said, walking toward me. “You haven’t tasted the champagne. I had it specially imported for you.”
The room was watching us. I had no choice but to lift the glass again. I pretended to sip, but kept my lips sealed.
David’s expression darkened. “Drink,” he said softly, but there was steel beneath the word.
That’s when I saw it—a flash of something cold and calculating in his eyes. In that instant, I knew Sarah was right.
“I think I’ll save it,” I said, setting the glass down on a nearby table. “I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed.”
“Drink the champagne, Victoria,” David said, his voice harder now.
Sarah appeared at my side. “She said she doesn’t want it.”
“This doesn’t concern you,” David snapped.
“Actually, it does,” Sarah said. She turned to the guests, her voice loud and clear. “Everyone, please don’t drink the champagne. It’s been tampered with.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. David’s face went red with rage.
“That’s a ridiculous accusation,” he said. “Security, remove this woman.”
But Sarah held up her phone. “I’ve already sent the lab analysis to the police. They’re on their way. The champagne contains a compound that’s deadly to people with AB negative blood—Victoria’s blood type.”
“You’re insane,” David said, but his eyes darted toward the exits.
That’s when I saw him check his watch—a quick, furtive glance. And I knew. Whatever he’d planned, it was on a timetable.
“What happens next, David?” I asked, my voice surprisingly steady. “After the champagne? Another convenient accident?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but he was backing away.
Sarah grabbed my wrist. “We need to leave. Now.”
That’s when the fire alarm went off.
Sprinklers activated throughout the Grand Conservatory, soaking guests and decorations alike. But something was wrong—the water had a chemical smell, and where it touched the floral arrangements, small flames sparked to life.
“It’s not water,” Sarah shouted over the screams. “The sprinkler system’s been compromised!”
David was moving toward the main entrance, where the crowd was panicking, trying to escape. In the chaos, I saw him clearly for the first time—not the charming man I’d fallen in love with, but a predator whose plan was falling apart.
“Run!” Sarah yelled.
And that’s how we ended up fleeing through the kitchen, running for our lives from a wedding that had been designed to end in my death.
The Escape
We didn’t stop running until we reached Sarah’s car, parked three blocks away in a residential neighborhood. My wedding dress was filthy, soaked with the chemical water from the conservatory’s sabotaged sprinkler system. My feet bled from running in heels I’d kicked off two blocks back.
“Get in,” Sarah said, fumbling with her keys.
I collapsed into the passenger seat, my mind reeling. Behind us, we could hear sirens approaching the Grand Conservatory. Fire trucks, police, ambulances.
“Where are we going?” I gasped.
“Somewhere safe,” Sarah said, pulling away from the curb. “I’ve been planning for this.”
“You’ve been planning for me to run away from my own wedding?”
“I’ve been planning for the possibility that David would try something,” she corrected. “I have a safe house. It’s under a shell corporation name—he can’t track it.”
I stared at my sister. “How long have you been preparing for this?”
“Since the day I met him,” Sarah admitted. “Vic, from the moment I saw how he looked at you—or rather, how he looked around your apartment, cataloging your possessions—I knew something was wrong. I’ve been investigating him ever since.”
My phone buzzed. A text from David: Where are you? Are you hurt?
I showed it to Sarah. She grabbed the phone and threw it out the window.
“Hey!”
“He can track that,” she said. “Everything you have on you right now—your phone, your ring, that bracelet he gave you—all of it could have tracking devices.”
I looked down at the diamond ring on my finger—my engagement ring and the wedding band we’d exchanged just an hour ago. The rings that symbolized a marriage that was already over.
I pulled them off and handed them to Sarah. She tossed them out the window too.
We drove for forty minutes, winding through back roads until we reached a small cottage in Connecticut. It looked abandoned, but when Sarah unlocked the door, I found it fully furnished and stocked with supplies.
“How long have you had this place?” I asked.
“Three months,” Sarah said. “Since you refused to listen to reason about David.”
I sank onto the couch, still wearing my ruined wedding dress. “You really thought it would come to this?”
“I hoped it wouldn’t,” Sarah said gently. “I hoped I was wrong. But Vic, I couldn’t risk losing you.”
She handed me a laptop. “I’ve been documenting everything. Every piece of evidence, every connection. It’s all here.”
I spent the next hour reading through Sarah’s investigation. It was even worse than I’d imagined. David wasn’t just a serial killer who married wealthy women—he was part of a sophisticated operation. The fake identities, the forged documents, the network of accomplices who helped stage accidents.
“Richard Blackwood, the owner of the Grand Conservatory,” Sarah explained, “he’s been involved in at least six suspicious deaths. The venue provides the perfect setting—old building, lots of things that can go wrong. Tonight was supposed to be a fire, with you trapped inside. The sprinkler system was rigged with accelerant instead of water.”
“And the champagne?” I asked.
“Backup plan,” Sarah said. “If you managed to escape the fire, the allergic reaction would finish the job. Either way, David becomes a grieving widower who inherits your estate.”
“But we have a prenup,” I said.
“That you signed under fraudulent pretenses,” Sarah replied. “The lawyer who drafted it is part of David’s network. And there’s a clause that voids the prenup if you die within the first year of marriage—claiming it shows the marriage was valid and not just a financial arrangement. It’s actually a clever legal trap.”
I felt sick. “How many women has he done this to?”
“That we can prove? Four. But I think there are more. I found records suggesting he’s been operating under different identities for at least fifteen years.”
My phone—or rather, the burner phone Sarah handed me—buzzed. A news alert about a fire at the Grand Conservatory. Multiple injuries, investigation ongoing.
“The guests,” I said. “Are they okay?”
“Most got out safely,” Sarah said, scrolling through updates. “A few injuries from the panic, smoke inhalation. But no deaths.”
“Thank God,” I breathed.
“The police are looking for you,” Sarah added. “They want to make sure you’re safe.”
“We should go to them,” I said. “Tell them everything.”
“We will,” Sarah said. “But not yet. We need to be smart about this. David has resources, connections. If we go to the police now, with just my evidence, he’ll claim it’s a misunderstanding. That you had cold feet and your sister convinced you to run.”
“So what do we do?”
“We get better evidence,” Sarah said. “I’ve been working with a private investigator—a former FBI agent who specializes in this kind of case. She’s been tracking David’s movements, his communications. She has contacts in law enforcement who can help us build an airtight case.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few days. Maybe a week,” Sarah said. “Can you handle staying hidden that long?”
I looked down at my ruined wedding dress, thought about the four women who’d died because they’d trusted the wrong man, and nodded.
“I can handle it,” I said. “For as long as it takes.”
The Investigation
The private investigator Sarah had hired was named Margaret Chen. She arrived at the safe house the next morning—a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties with close-cropped gray hair and an air of competence that immediately put me at ease.
“Ms. Ashford,” she said, shaking my hand. “I’m glad you’re safe. Your sister did the right thing getting you out of there.”
“Please, call me Victoria,” I said. “And thank you for helping us.”
Margaret opened her briefcase, pulling out files and photographs. “I’ve been investigating David Montgomery for the past two months. What I’ve found is disturbing but also provides exactly what we need to put him away for good.”
She spread photographs across the table. “David’s real name is Daniel Morrison. He’s originally from Ohio—grew up in foster care after his parents died in a car accident when he was eight. He was a smart kid, got a scholarship to college, studied business and psychology.”
“Psychology?” I asked.
“Yes. He’s very good at reading people, understanding what they want to hear. It’s how he’s been so successful at targeting vulnerable wealthy women.”
The word “vulnerable” stung, but I knew it was true. I’d been lonely, grieving my father, desperate for connection.
“His first confirmed victim was Catherine Morrison, his college girlfriend,” Margaret continued. “They married right after graduation. She came from old money—her family owned a pharmaceutical company. Six months after the wedding, she died in a hiking accident in Switzerland. Daniel inherited everything.”
“And no one suspected him?” Sarah asked.
“The Swiss police investigated, but Daniel had an alibi—he was at the hotel when she fell. He seemed genuinely devastated. What they didn’t know was that Daniel had hired someone to push her. We tracked down the man he hired—he’s serving time for an unrelated crime and is willing to testify in exchange for a reduced sentence.”
My hands clenched. “He murdered her.”
“Yes,” Margaret said simply. “And then he moved on to Lydia, Amanda, and Isabelle. Each time, the pattern was the same: whirlwind romance, quick marriage, convenient death, inheritance. He’d wait a few years between victims, change his appearance slightly, use a new identity.”
“How did he find them?” I asked.
“Charity events, social gatherings, dating apps for wealthy professionals,” Margaret explained. “He was methodical. He’d research potential targets, learn their vulnerabilities, craft the perfect persona to appeal to them.”
“And I was just another target,” I said bitterly.
“You were the biggest target,” Margaret corrected. “The Ashford Trust is worth more than all his previous victims’ estates combined. This was going to be his retirement score.”
She pulled out another file. “But Daniel made mistakes this time. He got greedy and impatient. The wedding was too soon after you met. The prenup was too obviously fraudulent. And he involved too many people—the forger, Richard Blackwood, the catering company owner. Each person is a potential weak link.”
“Have you talked to them?” Sarah asked.
“We have agents talking to them right now,” Margaret said. “The caterer is already cooperating—he’s terrified of going to prison. He’s provided detailed records of his communications with David, including instructions about the champagne.”
“And Blackwood?” I asked.
“Harder nut to crack,” Margaret admitted. “He’s been through this before. But we have evidence linking him to multiple suspicious fires at his venues over the years. With the right pressure, he might flip.”
“What about David?” I asked. “Where is he now?”
Margaret’s expression darkened. “That’s the concerning part. He disappeared from the Grand Conservatory during the chaos. We’ve been tracking his credit cards, phone records—nothing. He’s gone to ground.”
A chill ran down my spine. “So he’s out there somewhere, looking for me.”
“Possibly,” Margaret said. “But he doesn’t know about this safe house. Your sister was very careful. And we have the advantage—he thinks you don’t know about his past. He probably assumes you ran away because of the fire, not because you discovered his plan.”
“What’s the next step?” Sarah asked.
“We build the case,” Margaret said. “I have contacts in the FBI who are interested in this. David has crossed state lines multiple times to commit these crimes—that makes it federal. We’re putting together a task force.”
“How long before you can arrest him?” I asked.
“A few days,” Margaret said. “We want to make sure we have everything before we move. Otherwise, a good lawyer might get him off on technicalities.”
The next four days were the longest of my life. I stayed in the safe house, watching news coverage of the “disastrous wedding at the Grand Conservatory.” The media was having a field day—the fire, the missing bride, the accusations of attempted murder.
David gave an interview, playing the heartbroken groom. “I just want Victoria to know I love her,” he said, looking directly into the camera with tears in his eyes. “Whatever happened, whatever scared her, we can work through it together.”
It was a masterful performance. I almost believed him myself.
But then Margaret called with an update. “We found the forger David hired. He kept copies of everything—fake death certificates, forged insurance documents, altered prenuptial agreements. It’s a goldmine of evidence.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“There’s more,” Margaret added. “We found evidence that David was planning another murder—he’d already selected his next victim. A widow in Boston, worth about fifty million. He was going to start pursuing her as soon as you were dead.”
The casual evil of it took my breath away. I wasn’t a person to him, just a transaction. And after me, there would have been another woman, and another.
“We’re ready to move,” Margaret said. “The FBI is issuing a warrant for David’s arrest. We know where he is.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Your apartment,” Margaret said. “He’s been staying there, going through your things. We have him on surveillance.”
“My apartment?” I felt violated. “How did he get in?”
“He has a key,” Margaret reminded me. “From when you gave him access.”
Of course. I’d given him a key after we got engaged. He’d probably had copies made.
“When are they arresting him?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” Margaret said. “And Victoria—I think you should be there.”
“At the arrest?”
“Yes. The FBI agents want you to formally identify him, confirm his identity. And I think… I think you need to see this. To see him in custody, to know he can’t hurt you anymore.”
I considered it. Part of me never wanted to see David again. But Margaret was right—I needed closure.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
Justice
The next morning, Sarah drove me to my apartment building in Manhattan. FBI agents had surrounded the building, though they were trying to be discreet. Margaret met us outside.
“He’s still inside,” she said. “We’ve been monitoring him all night. He ordered takeout, watched TV, slept in your bed. Acting like he owned the place.”
My stomach turned. “Let’s get this over with.”
The FBI team leader, Agent Rodriguez, briefed me. “We’re going in at seven a.m. He usually wakes up around that time. We’ll have him in custody within minutes. I need you to stay back until we’ve secured him.”
I nodded, too nervous to speak.
At exactly seven, six FBI agents entered the building. Sarah and I waited with Margaret and Agent Rodriguez in an unmarked van, watching on monitors as the team approached my apartment door.
They knocked. “FBI! Open up!”
Silence. Then the sound of movement inside.
“FBI! We have a warrant! Open the door or we’re coming in!”
More silence. Then suddenly, a crash—David had gone out the window onto the fire escape.
“He’s running,” Agent Rodriguez barked into his radio. “Cover the exits!”
On the monitor, I watched David climb down the fire escape, agents pursuing. He hit the ground running, sprinting down the alley behind the building.
“He’s not going to make it,” Margaret said calmly. “We have the whole block surrounded.”
She was right. Within a minute, agents tackled David at the end of the alley. I watched on the monitor as they handcuffed him, reading him his rights.
“Got him,” Agent Rodriguez said. “Ms. Ashford, we need you for the identification.”
My legs felt weak as Sarah and I walked to the alley. FBI agents were everywhere, securing the scene. And there, in handcuffs, was David.
He looked different than I remembered. Disheveled, desperate, nothing like the polished man I’d fallen in love with. When he saw me, his expression changed—a flash of rage, quickly covered by his familiar charm.
“Victoria,” he said. “Thank God. Tell them this is a mistake. Tell them—”
“I can’t do that, David,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice was. “Or should I call you Daniel Morrison?”
His face went pale. “What?”
“I know everything,” I continued. “Catherine, Lydia, Amanda, Isabelle. All the women you murdered. All the lives you destroyed.”
“That’s insane,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Victoria, they’ve fed you lies—”
“Stop,” I interrupted. “I’ve seen the evidence. I know what you are.”
Agent Rodriguez stepped forward. “Ms. Ashford, can you confirm this is the man you married yesterday?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s David Montgomery. The man who tried to kill me at our wedding.”
David’s mask finally slipped entirely. “You stupid girl,” he snarled. “Do you know how much you were worth to me? How much planning went into this? You were supposed to be the easy one—the lonely heiress desperate for love.”
“She was never alone,” Sarah said, stepping beside me. “She had me.”
“And now you have nothing,” I added. “Except a long prison sentence.”
As they loaded David into the FBI vehicle, he looked back at me one last time. “You’ll never prove it,” he said. “I’m too careful. I always have been.”
“Actually,” Margaret said, appearing at my side, “we have multiple witnesses ready to testify, forensic evidence from all four murder scenes, and financial records showing you profited from each death. We have the forger you hired, the caterer you paid off, and Richard Blackwood has agreed to cooperate in exchange for a reduced sentence. Your perfect plan had too many imperfect people in it.”
David’s face collapsed. He’d finally realized he was caught.
The FBI van drove away, taking David to federal detention. I stood in the alley behind my apartment building, wearing jeans and a sweater borrowed from Sarah, and felt something I hadn’t felt in months: safe.
“It’s over,” Sarah said, wrapping her arm around me.
“Not quite,” I replied. “There’s still the trial.”
“There might not be,” Margaret said. “With the evidence we have, David’s lawyer will probably push for a plea deal. He’s looking at multiple life sentences.”
“Good,” I said. “He doesn’t deserve to see daylight again.”
Epilogue: Six Months Later
The courtroom was packed for the sentencing hearing. David had indeed taken a plea deal, pleading guilty to four counts of first-degree murder and one count of attempted murder in exchange for avoiding the death penalty.
I sat in the front row with Sarah, watching as David was led in wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles. He looked smaller somehow, diminished without his expensive suits and practiced charm.
The families of his victims were there too—Catherine’s sister, Lydia’s parents, Amanda’s children, Isabelle’s brother. All of them getting the closure they’d waited years for.
The judge read the sentence: four consecutive life terms plus twenty-five years, no possibility of parole.
“Mr. Morrison,” the judge said, “you have shown a callous disregard for human life, treating these women as nothing more than financial transactions. You have earned every day of the sentence I’m imposing.”
David showed no emotion, just stared straight ahead.
“Do you have anything to say?” the judge asked.
David stood. For a moment, I thought he might apologize. Instead, he said: “I played the game and lost. That’s all.”
The game. That’s all our lives had been to him—a game.
After the sentencing, I met with the families of David’s victims. We shared stories, tears, and ultimately, a sense of justice served.
“Thank you for stopping him,” Catherine’s sister said, hugging me. “If you hadn’t run, if your sister hadn’t investigated, he would have kept killing.”
“I just wish I’d figured it out sooner,” I said.
“You figured it out in time,” she replied. “That’s what matters.”
Outside the courthouse, reporters were waiting. I’d agreed to make one statement, then never speak publicly about this again.
“I want other women to know,” I said into the microphones, “that if something feels wrong in a relationship, trust that instinct. If someone seems too good to be true, investigate. If your family or friends express concerns, listen to them. And know that it’s never too late to walk away—even if you’re literally walking down the aisle.”
Sarah stood beside me, my anchor through everything.
“I also want to acknowledge my sister,” I continued. “She refused to give up on me, even when I pushed her away. She risked everything to save my life. That’s real love.”
The reporters shouted questions, but we walked away. We’d said what we needed to say.
Six months after the wedding that never was, I was rebuilding my life. I’d sold the penthouse—too many memories of David. I’d moved into a brownstone in Brooklyn, close to Sarah.
The Ashford Trust continued its work, funding arts education programs across the country. I’d hired a new team to help manage it—people I’d vetted thoroughly this time.
I was also working with Margaret Chen’s firm as a consultant, helping identify patterns in cases of marriage fraud. My experience had given me insights that could help protect other potential victims.
“You’re turning tragedy into purpose,” Margaret said during one of our meetings. “That takes strength.”
“I learned from the best,” I replied, thinking of my grandmother who’d started the Ashford Trust after losing her son—my father—to help other young people pursue their dreams.
Dating was off the table for now. Maybe forever. I was fine with that. I’d learned that being alone wasn’t the same as being lonely, and that the love of family and friends was worth more than any romantic relationship.
Sarah and I had grown closer than ever. She’d taken a leave of absence from her job to stay with me during the trial, and now we had dinner together several times a week.
“I’m proud of you,” she said one evening, as we sat in my new apartment drinking wine. “You could have let this break you, but instead you’re helping others.”
“I’m trying,” I said. “Some days are harder than others.”
“That’s normal,” Sarah said. “You’re healing from trauma. It takes time.”
I thought about the wedding dress I’d finally thrown away, the rings David had given me that were now evidence in a federal case, the future I’d imagined that had been nothing but lies.
But I also thought about the women I’d helped since—three potential victims of marriage fraud who’d reached out after seeing my statement, whom I’d connected with investigators. Three women who wouldn’t become statistics.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t investigated David?” I asked Sarah.
“Every day,” she admitted. “But I try not to dwell on it. What matters is that I did investigate, and you trusted me enough to run when I told you to.”
“I almost didn’t,” I confessed. “I was so close to drinking that champagne.”
“But you didn’t,” Sarah said firmly. “When it mattered, you made the right choice.”
We sat in comfortable silence, two sisters who’d survived something that should have destroyed us.
My phone buzzed—a news alert. Richard Blackwood had been sentenced to fifteen years for his role in David’s schemes. The caterer had received five years probation for cooperating.
Justice, slowly but steadily, was being served.
“What now?” Sarah asked.
“Now,” I said, “I keep living. I keep working. I keep helping others. I refuse to let what David did define the rest of my life.”
“That’s my sister,” Sarah said, raising her wine glass. “To survival.”
“To survival,” I echoed. “And to family—the kind you’re born with and the kind you choose.”
We clinked glasses, and I felt something I hadn’t felt since before I met David Montgomery: hope for the future.
The wedding that never was had been the worst day of my life. But it had also been the day I’d learned who I really was—not a lonely heiress desperate for love, but a survivor with the strength to fight for her own life and help others do the same.
And that was worth more than any inheritance, any marriage, any fairy tale ending.
Because this wasn’t a fairy tale. It was real life, messy and complicated and sometimes terrifying.
But it was mine. And I was finally free to live it on my own terms.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
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