Chapter 8 - The Resurrection
he blinding winter sunlight poured through the open cathedral doors, silhouetteing two
figures standing in the entrance. The cold wind swept snow into the sanctuary, rustling the
white floral arrangements. As the fog cleared, the crowd let out a collective, deafening gasp. Walking
down the long marble aisle, her head held high, was me.
The Ice and the Altar 6
V
I was wearing a beautiful, form-fitting black lace dress that proudly showcased my heavily
pregnant, nine-month belly. My left cheek carried the jagged, silver scar from the fall, but my eyes
were bright, burning with an unyielding, terrifying light. I walked with a steady, commanding grace,
my arm slipped securely into the arm of Adrian Cross—who had stepped down from the altar to meet
me. The crowd of reporters went wild, their cameras flashing so fast it looked like a strobe light, their
voices rising in a deafening chorus of shock and disbelief.
“Elena?” Victor whispered, his face instantly losing all color, turning a sickly, ghostly white. The
fountain pen slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering onto the coffin before rolling onto the
floor. His knees began to buckle, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as his brain struggled to
process the physical reality of the woman standing before him. “No... no, this is impossible. You’re
dead. You froze to death in the ravine.”
Serena let out a sharp, terrified shriek, stumbling backward against the altar, her hands covering
her mouth as she stared at my scarred face. “She’s a ghost! Victor, she’s a ghost!”
“I am no ghost, Victor,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the massive cathedral, carrying
the absolute weight of my survival. I stopped at the end of the altar, looking down at the man who had
tried to murder his own child. “You pushed me off Blackthorn Cliff. You laughed as I fell. You left me
to freeze in the dark while you drank champagne with your mistress. But the ice didn't kill me. And
May you like
my son is alive.”
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