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I was Hollywood's sweetheart, walking down the aisle in the "wedding of the year" to marry a star athlete.
But this wasn't a fairytale. It was a cold, calculated business transaction orchestrated by my own mother.
My fiancé, John, didn't want a wife; he wanted an asset to double his brand value.
My mother ignored my suffocating dread, treating me like a product on display. She even forced me to turn down a massive movie role just to secure this merger.
As my father proudly handed me over to a man who only saw me as property, John squeezed my hand, his possessive grip a silent threat.
I stood at the altar in a million-dollar gown, surrounded by thousands of white roses, feeling like I was being buried alive.
The whole world was watching, cheering for the perfect couple, completely blind to my silent screams.
Why did my own family sell me out for money and connections? How could I be forced to say "I do" to a hypocrite who made my stomach churn?
I thought I had no choice but to surrender to this beautifully crafted cage.
Until I looked into the shadows at the back of the church and met the ice-blue eyes of a complete stranger.
He saw right through my flawless makeup to the shattered soul underneath.
And judging by the dark, furious look on his face, he wasn't going to let this wedding finish.
Stealing My Rival's Bride At The Altar Chapter 1
Clara POV:
I sat before the enormous floor-to-ceiling mirror, a doll in a Vera Wang gown. Perfect. Flawless. An exquisite puppet ready for the show.
The makeup artist leaned in, swiping a final coat of gloss onto my lips. The red was the color of blood. My stomach churned.
I forced a deep breath, but the air was thick with the scent of lilies and roses. The wedding's theme flowers. They were supposed to smell like romance. Instead, they smelled cloyingly sweet, like a funeral home.
The door swished open and my mother, Genevieve Montgomery, swept in. She was a vision in a Chanel suit, her smile as perfect and unyielding as her posture.
"Oh, Clara, my darling," she breathed, circling me as if I were a prize-winning sculpture. "You are simply breathtaking."
Her praise was a cold, smooth stone in my gut. It wasn't warmth; it was an appraisal. A confirmation that her investment had yielded a perfect return.
I tried to smile back, but my facial muscles were frozen. It came out as a twitch.
She didn't notice. Or she didn't care. Her gaze drifted to the window overlooking the manicured hotel grounds. "Look at that crowd. TMZ, People magazine... every major outlet is here. This will be the wedding of the decade."
Her words were a hammer blow to my chest. My hands, hidden in the folds of my dress, clenched into fists. My nails dug into my palms, the sharp pain a welcome anchor in the spinning room.
This was a performance. I was the lead actress. And there was no escape.
A stylist stepped forward and placed the Cartier-sponsored diamond tiara on my head. The cold metal against my skin made me flinch.
It wasn't a crown. It was a beautiful, glittering cage.
Ford's face flashed in my mind. That handsome, celebrated face that made me want to vomit.
A wave of nausea rolled through me, and I swallowed it down. Hard. I couldn't be sick. Not now. Not in this armor.
My mother was still talking, excitedly detailing the seating chart for the reception, ensuring every sponsor and key media figure had a prime view.
My existence, it seemed, was merely the most valuable prop in her grand PR production.
I stared at my reflection. The woman in the mirror had wide, terrified blue eyes. A rabbit caught in a snare.
I quickly looked down at my lap, afraid someone would see the secret screaming in my gaze.
How did I get here?
The question echoed in the hollow space where my heart should be. The answer only brought more despair.
Because I am Clara Montgomery. The pop star who always smiles, who is always perfect. I am not allowed to disappoint anyone.
My mother patted my shoulder, her touch light and dismissive. "Alright, darling. Chin up. Your groom is waiting."
The word 'groom' was a viper's bite. My stomach dropped.
I nodded mechanically, a wind-up toy set in motion.
The makeup artists and stylists murmured their congratulations. "You look so beautiful, Ms. Montgomery." "Congratulations on your big day."
Their blessings sounded like curses.
My mother's PR assistant whispered something in her ear, and Genevieve's smile widened.
"All the major networks are ready for the live broadcast," she announced, her voice ringing with pride.
The world tilted. The sounds around me faded to a dull buzz.
My only thought was: run.
But my feet were lead weights, bolted to the floor.
The suite door opened softly. It was my maid of honor, my best friend, Elara.
She stood in the doorway, a bright smile on her face.
Then her eyes met mine, and her smile froze.
She was, perhaps, the only person in the world who could see the cracks in my mask.
Stealing My Rival's Bride At The Altar Chapter 2
Clara POV:
Elara rushed toward me, the lavender fabric of her bridesmaid dress swishing around her ankles. The brilliant smile she'd walked in with had vanished, replaced by a deep V between her brows.
"Clara? Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice low enough for only me to hear. Her sincere brown eyes were filled with a concern so real it felt like a physical blow.
Of all the fake smiles and hollow congratulations, her worry was the only genuine thing in the room. And because of that, it hurt the most.
I couldn't tell her. I couldn't drag her into this mess. Ford's influence, the things he was capable of... I couldn't risk it.
I took a breath, summoning every ounce of my stage training. I manufactured a smile I hoped was bright enough to blind her. "Of course, I'm okay, Elara. Just... nervous. You know, pre-wedding jitters."
The excuse was pathetic. I was Clara Montgomery. I'd performed in stadiums for eighty thousand people. I didn't get stage fright.
Elara's frown deepened. "Jitters? Clara, you look like you're about to walk to your own execution, not your wedding."
Her words were too accurate. I felt the mask crack.
I looked down, fussing with a perfectly placed fold on my skirt. "Don't be dramatic. It's the happiest day of my life." My voice trembled.
She caught my hand, her palm warm and firm. "Look at me, Clara. If something is wrong, you have to tell me. We're best friends, aren't we?"
I met her insistent gaze. The truth was a hot, bitter thing on the tip of my tongue. I was so close to letting it spill.
But then my mother's voice cut through the air. "Elara, perfect timing! Come help me check Clara's veil. Oh, heavens, Clara, you're pale as a ghost. Makeup!"
My mother's frantic energy shattered the fragile tension between Elara and me, giving me an escape.
I shot Elara a grateful, pleading look that I hoped said I'm fine, and then obediently tilted my chin as the makeup artist descended with a powder puff.
Elara stared at me for a long, heavy moment, her eyes a mix of hurt and confusion. She finally let out a soft sigh and said nothing more, just adjusted my veil with gentle hands.
I knew I'd hurt her with my lie. But it was the only way I knew how to protect her.
My mother, dissatisfied with my complexion, instructed the artist to add more blush until my cheeks glowed with a "happy, bridal flush."
I looked at the stranger in the mirror, the one with flushed cheeks and empty eyes, and a chill went straight through me.
An assistant hurried into the room. "Mrs. Montgomery, it's time. The guests are seated, and Mr. Cohen is ready."
It was time. Time for the judgment.
My body began to tremble, a slight, uncontrollable shiver.
Elara squeezed my hand again, a silent transfer of strength.
My mother beamed at my made-up perfection and linked her arm through mine. "Let's go, my dear. The world is waiting to see the most beautiful bride."
Her arm was like an iron clamp, leaving no room for retreat.
She half-pulled, half-dragged me out of the suite and down the long, flower-lined corridor toward the ceremony hall.
Giant engagement photos of Ford and me lined the walls. We were smiling, laughing, the picture of a perfect couple.
How ironic. That photo was taken right after one of our worst fights, forced on us by his PR team.
With every step, I felt myself drifting further from who I really was.
At the end of the hall stood two massive, gold-inlaid oak doors.
Behind them were a thousand guests, countless flashing cameras, and my goddamn destiny.
I could hear the muffled hum of the crowd and the low, elegant notes of a string quartet.
My mother stopped, gave me one last critical look, and then placed my hand in the waiting arm of my father, Carlisle Montgomery.
Stealing My Rival's Bride At The Altar Chapter 3
Clara POV:
My father, Carlisle Montgomery, stood tall in a flawless Tom Ford suit. He didn't look like a father giving his daughter away; he looked like a CEO closing a major deal.
He glanced down at me, his smile a practiced, corporate thing. "You look beautiful, Clara. A Montgomery woman is always the best in the room."
His words held no warmth, only an emphasis on the brand. I was, just like my mother, another asset in his empire.
I placed my gloved hand in the crook of his arm. My skin was ice-cold beneath the silk. I managed a small nod, unable to force even a fake smile.
He must have felt my stiffness. "I know this is a big step, Clara," he murmured, his voice low and confidential. "This union with Ford... it's an immeasurable boost to both of our family brands."
Brand value. That's all this marriage meant to him.
The air in my lungs turned to stone. My family, my fiancé... they weren't my sanctuary. They were the architects of my prison.
The great oak doors swung inward, pushed silently by two attendants.
In an instant, I was blinded by light, deafened by a roar of applause. A thousand pairs of eyes descended on me.
I squinted, feeling like a specimen pinned under a microscope.
The string quartet swelled, the opening notes of the wedding march sounding like a dirge for my own funeral.
My father's arm guided me forward. The walk down the aisle felt miles long.
I could feel the gazes from both sides—envy, admiration, scrutiny. They were all watching the myth, Clara Montgomery, walk toward her fairytale ending.
Only I knew I was walking toward the gallows.
I forced my chin up, adopting the practiced, regal smile I wore on stage. It was my armor.
My eyes traveled past the sea of faces to the figure waiting at the end of the aisle—Bradford 'Ford' Cohen.
He stood under an archway of ten thousand white roses, handsome as a prince in a suit that matched my father's.
He was smiling at me. A warm, adoring smile that could melt any woman's heart.
But behind that smile, I saw the chilling glint of a predator.
My stomach twisted violently. I nearly buckled.
My father's arm tightened, steadying me without a glance. He simply maintained his even, measured pace.
Closer. Ten feet. Five.
His face came into sharp focus. The gray eyes that once made my heart flutter now filled me with a cold, primal fear.
I could see it now, glittering in their depths. Not love. It was the triumphant gleam of possession. He'd done it. He was about to officially bind the name Clara Montgomery to his commercial machine.
A wave of self-loathing washed over me. Why did I give in? Why was I so weak?
We reached the altar. The officiant stood beside it, a kind, gentle smile on his face.
My father stopped. He took my hand, preparing to pass it to Ford.
The final transaction. From one cage to another.
Ford held out his hand, his smile perfect.
My own hand felt impossibly heavy. I couldn't lift it.
Time seemed to slow. My father's expectant grip, Ford's waiting eyes, the officiant's smile, the guests' silent anticipation—it was all a grotesque pantomime.
Finally, under my father's insistent pressure, I slowly, resignedly, placed my silk-gloved hand into Ford's palm.