You think the velvet ropes and the heavy-set security guards in earpieces can keep out a ghost? You’re wrong. I’m not here to throw a scene or scream "I object" when the priest asks. I’m far more dangerous than that. I’m the silence in the back row.

Look at you—dressed in white silk that costs more than my soul, smiling for a camera that doesn’t know how to capture the truth. You’re marrying a "Star," and the world is watching. But while they see a fairy tale, I see the ink on the contract.

Not as a lover, but as a reminder. Because when the "Star-Love" fades and the photographers go home, you’ll still have to look at the person you left behind in the dark. Congratulations. It’s a beautiful performance.

Go ahead. Say the words. Promise him your "always." I’ll be standing right behind the marble pillar, watching your eyes dart to the exit just for a split second. You’ll wonder if I’m here. You’ll feel the draft when the heavy oak doors swing shut.

The church is cold, but the flashbulbs are hot. I can see the "Star-Love" headlines already, printed in cheap ink on tomorrow’s morning edition.