Husband's Choice: Sister Over Wife

The September sun cast a golden glow across the marble steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral as I stood in my wedding dress, a vision in white lace and pearls. Curtis had insisted on the grandest venue in New York City—nothing but the best for his bride. Photographers circled like elegant vultures, capturing every perfect moment of what the society pages would surely call the wedding of the year.

"You look breathtaking," Victoria whispered, adjusting my veil. "Curtis won't be able to take his eyes off you."

I smiled, my heart swelling with a happiness I'd fought so hard to claim. Against my mother's wishes. Against the Kennedy name and all it stood for.

"He already can't," I replied, catching Curtis's gaze from across the reception hall. Even surrounded by New York's elite, he only had eyes for me.

My mother, Eleanor, stood rigidly by the champagne fountain, her disapproval radiating through her practiced society smile. The pearl necklace at her throat gleamed under the crystal chandeliers—a family heirloom she'd threatened to withhold when I'd first brought Curtis home. A poor boy. A nobody. Beneath the Kennedy name.

"I'll make her the happiest woman in the world," Curtis had promised her after she'd publicly humiliated him at the charity gala last year, pouring champagne on his rented tuxedo. "Watch me."

And he had. Rising from nothing to build the Elliott Corporation, becoming the man my mother couldn't dismiss. Today was our triumph.

I excused myself from Victoria, needing a moment of fresh air before the reception speeches began. The September breeze felt cool against my flushed skin as I stepped toward the entrance. That's when I saw her—Saanvi Clark, Curtis's adopted sister, sitting behind the wheel of a sleek black Mercedes, her face a mask of concentration.

My mother emerged from a side door, phone pressed to her ear, no doubt orchestrating some last-minute detail she found lacking. She didn't see the car. Didn't notice as the engine revved.

Time slowed. I opened my mouth to scream a warning, but before any sound escaped, the Mercedes lurched forward with deliberate speed.

The sickening thud echoed across the parking lot. My mother's body crushed against the stone pillar, the Mercedes's front end crumpled around her. The pearl necklace scattered across the asphalt like drops of milk.

"MOTHER!" The scream tore from my throat as I ran, my wedding dress billowing behind me. My knees hit the pavement beside her broken body, white lace soaking up crimson. Her eyes, still open, found mine—surprised, pained, and somehow accusatory even in death.

"Help! Somebody help us!" I cradled her head, feeling warmth drain away with each passing second. Guests poured from the cathedral, gasps and screams creating a horrific soundtrack to what should have been the happiest day of my life.

Paramedics arrived, their movements efficient but futile. I barely registered their voices declaring what I already knew—she was gone. Through my tears, I saw Curtis, not at my side where he should have been, but at the driver's side of the Mercedes, his hand on Saanvi's shoulder as she sobbed dramatically.

He was on his phone, speaking in low, urgent tones. "James, I need the lawyers here. Now. And call Dr. Morgan—yes, immediately."

His eyes met mine across the chaos, and in that moment, something shifted between us. His priority wasn't me. It wasn't my grief. It was her.

Hours later, I sat numb in a private conference room at Mount Sinai Hospital, still in my blood-stained wedding dress. Curtis paced before me, his perfect tuxedo rumpled, his face a mask of controlled urgency.

"Hazel, I need you to sign this." He slid a document across the polished table. "It's a statement of forgiveness. For Saanvi."

"Forgiveness?" The word tasted like ash. "She murdered my mother."

"It was an accident," Curtis insisted, though we both knew better. I'd seen Saanvi's face behind that wheel. "She's pregnant, Hazel. And fragile. The doctors say she could lose the baby from the stress alone. She's threatening to harm herself."

As if on cue, Saanvi was escorted in by a nurse. Her mascara artfully smeared, one hand protectively cradling her flat stomach, the other trembling as she reached for Curtis.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpered, her eyes darting to me then away. "I didn't see her. The sun was in my eyes. I would never... I couldn't..."

She crumpled into Curtis's arms, a perfect portrait of remorse and vulnerability.

"The prosecutor is willing to consider a reduced charge given her condition," Curtis continued, his voice softening as he held Saanvi. "But we need your statement. Please, Hazel. For our future. For our family."

I stared at the document, at the pen in his outstretched hand, at my new husband comforting my mother's killer on what should have been our wedding night.

And with shaking fingers, I reached for the pen.