I was ready to marry the love of my life in what promised to be a fairytale wedding, only for my world to come crashing down. Just as I stood at the altar, my mother burst into the ceremony and shouted in desperation: “STOP THE WEDDING… HE’S YOUR BIOLOGICAL FATHER!” Her words left me shattered and breathless, turning my dream into a nightmare.
The New York sun beamed on my big day—a blend of nerves and joy filled my heart. My mother, traveling from Paris, was running late, and it was almost time to begin. Zack, my fiancé, waited patiently. Despite my excitement, my mother’s absence gnawed at my happiness.
Suddenly, a loud cry cut through the crowd.
“April, honey, STOP THE WEDDING!”
It was Mom, Heidi, looking frantic and exhausted. She stormed in, eyes fixated on Zack.
“CHRISTIAN?” she yelled, plunging everyone into bewilderment.
“Christian? Mom, that’s Zack,” I replied, bewildered.
Mom was furious. “Don’t act naive, Christian. You have no right to be here with a false identity.”
Fear crept in. “Mom, what’s happening? You recognize Zack?”
Her next words struck like lightning. “I barely caught my flight, but made it in the nick of time. April, he’s not Zack. He’s Christian—YOUR REAL DAD,” she stammered, voice fraught with emotion.
The world felt like it shattered beneath me. Gasping, I fainted. Upon recovering, surrounded by worried faces, denial gripped me. “He’s…my father?” I wept, struggling to process it all.
Mom nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. “Forgive me, my love. The man you would have wed is indeed your father. We believed he was gone, yet he remained in our shadow.”
Mom sighed deeply, unfolding her past: It all started…
Years ago in Chicago, I met Christian at my workplace, an art gallery. His charm and shared passion for art drew us together swiftly—life felt like a dream. Then, like a puff of smoke, he vanished, taking with him my savings and a valuable Renaissance artwork.
Returning home, I found chaos. The painting was missing, and so was he. Little did he know, the painting he pinched was counterfeit; the real one stayed safe.
The local police, powerless without a photo, had a hard time pursuing him.
Our romance was clandestine, his idea. My trust felt betrayed. I implored the police for assistance, often feeling trapped in a corner.
A sketch artist captured Christian’s likeness, soon circulating his image around the city. It was progress, albeit small.
Repeated visits to the police station wore me down, each time met with disappointment.
Yet, with each passing day, my resolve to find Christian strengthened.
I would linger at his favored pub, hopeful he might return. Then, a realization struck—art would be his downfall, presenting the most effective trap.
So, with the real painting, I baited my trap, clinging to the hope it would draw him out.
At the art auction, my nerves bubbled beneath the surface. Blending into the lavish crowd, I waited. Alas, Christian was present, masquerading as another affluent buyer. The moment his bid was made, the trap triggered.
He secured the painting, only for an undercover officer to “accidentally” spill water on him. There it was—the scar on his neck, confirming his identity. As Christian approached the payment desk, he was cornered. “Christian, you’re under arrest!” officers proclaimed.
Relief washed over me—my strategy worked, success was certain.
In a twist, Christian’s suitcase burst open, empty of painting. Chaos erupted as he retrieved a tear gas canister, disappearing amidst the turmoil with the painting in tow.
Once more, he evaded capture, devastatingly.
Despite being wanted, Christian remained elusive.
Public judgment branded me as an accomplice. My livelihood teetered on suspension. “I aimed to trap him, not abet his escape!” I defended in vain. Amid this turmoil, I learned I was pregnant.
Paris became my sanctuary—a fresh start for me and my unborn child.
Clutching Mom’s hand, my tears flowed unbidden. “Unfair, the heartache you bore, Mom.”
Her voice carried hope despite sorrow. “Regardless of history with Christian, my love for you, April, gives me strength.”
Guilt pinched my heart. How had I missed such signs? The brushed-off age gap, Zack’s requests for privacy, the uneasy vibes—everything made sense now. My fairytale wedding unraveled completely.
Tearfully, I gazed at Mom.
“I never suspected you were…Christian was him. I couldn’t let the wedding happen, my dear,” she explained softly.
The assembled guests were dumbstruck as the wedding screeched to a halt.
Christian attempted to flee, only to be pursued until apprehended swiftly.
A visibly shaken Mom dialed the police with trembling hands, “A crime—it’s urgent.”
Drained by emotions, I embraced Mom, craving solace. Watching Christian’s arrest, I exhaled relief.
Later, at the police station, Mom’s composure was remarkable as she recounted Christian’s deception. “His artistry in conning was elaborate—all intricately planned.”
The detective paused his scribbling, acknowledging, “And you assert the original painting was in his possession the entire time?”
“Indeed,” confirmed an officer from Christian’s interrogation. “He’s admitted to plans of selling the artwork on the black market but was waiting for the perfect opportunity.”
Christian’s abode was a treasure trove of purloined artistry. We weren’t alone in our victimhood. Retrieving the masterpiece was a minor triumph amidst the ordeal.
Facing Christian once more before departing, Mom’s gaze was unwavering. “The destruction you’ve sown, Christian… But justice remains steadfast.”
Departing with the art restored, a burdensome chapter closed, allowing healing to commence, step by step.
