Bride Behind the Mask novel Chapter 863

Janie, sitting in the passenger seat, was momentarily stunned. She turned, uncertainty flashing in her eyes as she asked Marguerite, “Why are we going to St. Augustine’s? Weren’t we supposed to head straight to the press conference?”

Marguerite ignored her, instead leaning forward to urge the driver, “Turn here, please—now!”

The driver glanced nervously at Janie, then caught Marguerite’s gaze in the rearview mirror. His ashen face betrayed his discomfort.

“Ms. Lockwood, please, don’t make this harder for me. Mr. Winston gave strict orders—you’re not to go anywhere but the press conference.”

Marguerite didn’t bother arguing. Instead, she rolled down the window, half her body hanging dangerously outside.

“If you don’t change lanes right now, I’ll jump out!”

Her threats never worked on Maurice, but they were more than enough for Janie and the driver.

The driver went pale with fright, and Janie, panic-stricken, tried to reach back and grab Marguerite. But the gap between the front seat and the back was too wide; Janie couldn’t even touch her.

The wind whipped through the open window, tossing Marguerite’s long, seaweed-like hair across her face, wild and desperate.

Marguerite fixed Janie with a fierce glare, her eyes unwavering. Janie’s face drained of color. After a heavy sigh, she relented.

She patted the driver’s shoulder. “Turn here. We’ll take Ms. Lockwood to the church.”

The driver wiped sweat from his brow, quickly changed lanes, and steered toward the church.

But Janie was quick on her phone, sending a discreet message to Maurice. Less than ten minutes later, an imposing black Maybach pulled up, forcing their car to a halt.

The man got out, strode over, and pulled Marguerite onto the empty sidewalk. “You’re going to see Silas, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Marguerite’s eyes met his, unwavering and unashamed.

A chill in the morning air swept over them as Maurice slipped off his coat and draped it over Marguerite’s shoulders. He spoke quietly, “Don’t do this. If you want to go to the wedding, wait until after the press conference.”

“By then, they’ll already be married. What’s the point? Don’t stop me!” Marguerite shoved past him, but Maurice caught her arm, his gaze troubled and conflicted.

“What does their wedding have to do with you?”

How could it not?

Her husband was about to marry another woman—how could she just stand by?