Alaric stood over the fallen man, chest rising and falling with the adrenaline of his own cruelty. He didn’t look remorseful in the slightest. He looked triumphant instead, like a king who’d simply crushed an insect beneath his polished shoe. He casually adjusted his pristine white cuffs, shooting a dark, commanding glare toward the hovering security detail.

“What exactly are you waiting for?” Alaric snapped, voice dripping with venomous authority. “Pick this trash up and throw him out. Have him arrested for trespassing. And clean the floor where he fell.”

Two massive security guards, jolted finally into action by the billionaire’s wrath, stepped forward. They reached down, gloved hands grabbing the old man roughly by the lapels of his ruined canvas coat, fully intending to drag him away like a sack of garbage.

But the old man, despite the brutal impact that had undoubtedly bruised his frail ribs, possessed a strange, desperate resilience. A low, agonizing groan escaped his cracked lips. He pushed back against the guards, planting his dirty, calloused hands flat against the immaculate limestone, trying to force his own trembling body upright.

“Get up, old man. Stop resisting,” one guard growled, yanking him upward with unnecessary force.

It was during that chaotic, violent struggle that the fragile fabric finally gave way. His coat, already threadbare and slowly rotting from years of exposure to the elements, couldn’t withstand the rough handling. With a loud, sharp RIIIIP that echoed clean across the silent terrace, the entire left side of the coat, along with the filthy shirt underneath, tore open from collar down to elbow. The fabric peeled away, falling off his shoulder in a ragged heap.

As the cloth fell, the golden light of the setting sun poured directly over the old man’s exposed flesh.

Several women in the front rows let out genuine, unfiltered shrieks of horror, hands flying to their mouths, faces turning away sharply. A senator dropped his crystal champagne flute; it shattered against the stone with a sharp, alarming crack.

Exposed to the dying afternoon light was not merely a shoulder, but a horrific, agonizing landscape of ruined flesh. A massive burn scar occupied the entirety of his left shoulder, crawling up the side of his neck. It wasn’t a clean, surgical mark, nor the faded remnant of some minor accident. It was a violent, chaotic tapestry of trauma — skin heavily raised, thick, deeply ridged, resembling melted wax cooled far too quickly in some chaotic pattern. The tissue itself formed a mottled mix of angry, flushed reds, deep purples, and pale, lifeless whites. It looked as though some demonic claw had tried tearing his arm free from its own socket, or as though he’d once bathed in liquid fire itself. A grotesque, undeniable testament to unimaginable heat, unbearable agony, and a miraculous, tragic survival.

“Disgusting,” Alaric hissed, turning his head away in genuine revulsion, raising one hand to shield his own eyes from the sight. “Get him out of here before he makes my bride sick!”

He turned back toward the altar, fully expecting to see Isabeau shivering in horror, expecting gratitude for protecting their perfect day from such a monstrosity.

But Isabeau wasn’t looking at Alaric at all.

She stood frozen on the top step of the marble altar, breathtaking gown pooling around her feet. The delicate bouquet of white peonies slipped from her trembling, lace-gloved hands, striking the floor with a soft, entirely ignored thud.

Isabeau was staring directly at the old man’s exposed shoulder.

Time, for the aristocratic bride, suddenly decelerated into a sluggish, viscous crawl. The furious shouts of the security guards, the disgusted murmurs of assembled billionaires, the panicked rustling of silk dresses — all of it faded away entirely, swallowed by a deafening, high-pitched ringing filling her ears. The scent of imported flowers evaporated, violently replaced by a phantom odor suddenly flooding her senses.

It was the acrid, choking stench of burning rubber, melting metal, and scorching upholstery.

Isabeau’s breath caught hard in her throat, refusing to enter her lungs properly. Her large hazel eyes widened to the point of genuine pain. She wasn’t looking at the old man’s filthy, bearded face at all. Her gaze stayed locked entirely, obsessively, on the horrific, melted topography of that particular scar.

She knew that exact shape.