A six-year-old boy sent his sick mom’s photo to her ex. The millionaire CEO

cancelled his wedding and toward X. Hi, my beautiful family, welcome back to Mr.

Peter Stories, your own family channel. Heavenly God, we place our hearts before

you with humility and gratitude. Please surround this family with your mercy, peace, and protection. Bless every home

with calm nights, hopeful mornings, and strength for every unseen battle. Let

health replace worry. Let peace replace fear. And let love guide every step we

take. Lord, I lift every woman in this family into your light. Cover them with

dignity, wisdom, and unbreakable strength. They carry families, emotions, and silent sacrifices without asking for

recognition. Reward them with good health, inner peace, and lives filled

with respect. Let no woman here ever feel forgotten, weak or alone because

their value is priceless and their presence is a blessing to this world. My

beautiful family, these words come from the heart. I write with sincerity,

prayer, and love for you. Stay with me, feel this moment, and walk this journey

together because this family is built on respect, care, and trust. If your heart

is true, like the video. If your love is real, write. I am with Mr. Peter.

The organ music swelled through St. Patrick’s Cathedral like a beautiful lie. Patrick Walker stood at the altar

in his custom Italian tuxedo, staring at the massive wooden doors where his bride

would appear any moment. The church was packed with Manhattan’s elite, investors, socialites, business

partners, all watching him with champagne smiles, and diamondstudded expectations. His mother, Justine

Walker, sat in the front pew wearing cream Chanel and an expression of perfect triumph. She’d won. After years

of resistance, her son was finally marrying someone suitable. Catherine Chen would walk through those doors in

minutes, and Patrick would say vows he didn’t mean to a woman he didn’t love.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Patrick almost ignored it. The ceremony was

starting. The priest cleared his throat meaningfully, but something made him reach for it anyway. Some instinct that

felt like a hand pulling him back from the edge of a cliff. Unknown number, one

new message. He opened it. The photograph loaded slowly, pixel by

agonizing pixel. A woman’s face appeared on the screen. Hospital room.

Fluorescent lighting. Exhausted eyes closed. Skin glistening with fever. Dark

hair spread across a white pillow. Patrick’s heart stopped. He knew that

face. He’d spent six years trying to forget it. 6 years trying to convince

himself she was exactly what his mother said she was. A thief, a liar, someone

who’d used him and disappeared. 6 years telling himself that the woman he’d

loved more than breathing had never existed at all. Salma Hayek.

The phone slipped from his hand, clattered on the marble floor. Patrick.

The priest leaned forward, concerned. Son, are you all right?

The organ music seemed to grow louder, more insistent. Through the tall windows, New York sunlight streamed in

golden shafts. Everything looked perfect. Everything looked exactly like

the life his mother had planned for him. Patrick bent down, grabbed his phone,

looked at the photograph again. It was her, older, thinner, but unmistakably

her. those cheekbones. That mouth he’d kissed a thousand times. She was in a

hospital somewhere, sick or hurt, or he couldn’t finish the thought. Patrick, what’s wrong? His best man gripped his

shoulder. The cathedral doors opened. Catherine appeared in white silk and lace, her father’s arm linked through

hers. She looked beautiful, elegant, completely wrong. Patrick stared at the

photograph on his phone, then at Catherine, then at his mother, whose smile had frozen into something sharp

and dangerous. He made his choice in a heartbeat. “I’m sorry,” Patrick said

loud enough for the front rows to hear, then louder. “I’m so sorry. I can’t do

this.” The organ music stuttered to a stop. “Patrick, what are you?” The

priest started, but Patrick was already moving. He ran down the altar steps, his

dress shoes sliding on polished marble. Catherine stopped halfway down the

aisle, her face transforming from radiant to horrified. Gasps rippled

through the pews like wind through wheat. Patrick Walker, “You stop right

now.” His mother’s voice cracked like a whip. He didn’t stop. He ran past

Catherine, past her stunned father, past rows of shocked guests pulling out their

phones to record this disaster. Behind him, his mother was screaming something

about disgrace and responsibility, but her voice faded as he burst through the cathedral doors into blinding sunlight.

His driver stood by the limousine smoking a cigarette. Airport, Patrick gasped. Now, private terminal, sir. the

reception airport. The driver scrambled into the front seat. Patrick dove into

the back, already pulling up his pilot’s contact information. Behind them, the driver scrambled into the front seat.

Patrick dove into the back, already pulling up his pilot’s contact information. Behind them, wedding guests

poured out of the cathedral. Someone was crying. Someone else was laughing.

Patrick didn’t look back. in his hand. The phone screen still glowed with that photograph. Salma alive somewhere. He’d

find her, even if it meant burning down every bridge he’d ever built. The

private jet took off from Teterboro an hour later. Patrick sat alone in the leather seat, still wearing his tuxedo,

bow tie hanging loose around his neck. Miami. The photo had been sent from

Miami. Patrick stared out the window at clouds rushing past. His phone kept buzzing

with messages he didn’t read. The wedding had been streaming live. By now, the video of him running from the altar

was everywhere. Runaway groom CEO. He didn’t care. The jet’s interior was too