"Why are you doing this?" Gwen gasped as the handcuffs clicked. "Ma'am, you're under arrest. Step away from the altar," the officer said, voice flat, radio crackling at his shoulder. "You're making a mistake," Gwen shouted, heels skidding on the satin aisle runner. "This is a private ceremony. This—" "Sir, I'm going to need you to stand back," another officer barked at Brennan Contreras. "No interference." Brennan didn't move. He smiled with his mouth closed. He watched Gwen as if she were a broken prop on a stage. "People, please, someone stop this!" Emilie De Santis pushed through the circle of stunned guests. Her voice was sharp, trained. "This is a setup. You can't—" "Save it," an officer said. "You're on private property. Move." A phone camera bloomed a foot in front of Gwen's face. A woman in a sequined dress held it steady like a weapon. "Is she under arrest?" the woman said into the camera. "Gwen Ortiz? My live feed's on." "Get back!" a groomsman shouted. The crowd split into parts: shocked, filming, screaming. "What's the charge?" Gwen demanded of the officer who had her wrist. He swiped at her bracelet and the band of pearls split, scattering beads into the petals of the aisle flowers. "Fraud. Conspiracy. Financial misconduct," the officer said, reading from a pad. "You have the right to remain silent." "Fraud?" Gwen's laugh came out brittle. "You think I'd—" "You're done