“I’m from another world too,” Abigail reveals in a high-pitched rush. “I know you’re not crazy because I’m the same.”
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
The dressing room suddenly feels very small. Two otherworlders, standing in a bridal boutique, both carrying secrets that would sound insane to anyone else.
“The world I came from,” Abigail says slowly, “my father was a violent drunk. He’d come home angry and stay angry, and my mother and I learned to be very, very small.” She pauses. “Here, he’s just...cold. Distant. A workaholic who buries himself in business so he doesn’t have to feel anything.”
Her voice drops.
“All I ever wanted was a father who actually saw me. Not an asset. Not a tool for alliances. Just... me.” A hollow laugh escapes her. “Stupid prayer, right? Some things can’t change no matter which world you’re in.”
Oh.
I know that story. I lived a version of that story—my father’s voice shaking the walls, my mother’s silence filling all the spaces in between. Learning to read moods like sailors read the sky. Learning to disappear when the storm was coming.
“You’re also, um...” I hesitate, not sure how to say this without my voice cracking. “You mentioned you’re going to marry—”
“One of the kings.” Abigail lets out a small, startled laugh. “Imagine my surprise when I found out I was engaged to a mafia king. I was single in my world. Completely, utterly single. And then I wake up here and apparently I’m about to become royalty.”
“Did you ever write any of this down?” I ask. “The otherworlder stuff?”
Abigail shakes her head quickly. “Never. Too risky. I kept a journal, but...” She shivers. “If someone found it and read that I thought I was from another world? They’d lock me up. Or worse—use it against me.”
Smart. Paranoid, maybe, but smart.
Her smile fades.
“But I have to warn you. There’s this guy from my old world—”
“Amos?”
Her eyes fly wide. “How did you know?”
“I think we’re from the same world.” The realization settles over me like a cold blanket. “I know Marilyn.”
Abigail’s face darkens. “So you know how Amos stole her life savings?”
“I...didn’t, actually.”
“It’s his pattern.” Abigail’s voice has gone hard. “He’s good at sweeping women off their feet. Makes them feel special, cherished, like they’re the center of his universe. And then he convinces them to take out loans—for wedding surprises, romantic gestures, whatever story he’s spinning that week. Only the surprise is that he disappears with the money and leaves them drowning in debt.”
My stomach turns. That’s...that’s genuinely horrible. Like finding out the cream filling in a beautiful pastry is actually rancid.
“When I saw him here,” Abigail continues, “I recognized him immediately. Same face. Same charm. Samewrongfeeling in my gut.” She takes a breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out what he’s planning. Watching him. But I can’t prove anything yet.”
“Does he know? That you’re watching him?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been careful.” Abigail’s fingers twist together. “But there’s something different about him here. Something... more. The way he looks at me sometimes...” She shudders. “I can easily imagine him causing trouble on my wedding day. Showing up where he shouldn’t be. Watching. And if I’m right about what he is...”
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.
The wedding day.
On the original wedding day—the day I stumbled into the chapel and saw a woman in white fleeing through a hidden door—I assumed she was running from Devyn. From the marriage. From the terrifying mafia king who’d caught her trying to escape.
But what if I was wrong?
What if Abigail wasn’t runningfromDevyn?
