And he was going to get her back.
Even if he had to fight a god to do it.
Chapter Seventeen
OKAY, BAILEY. FOCUS.
I’m standing on a sidewalk in a wedding dress that isn’t mine, in a timeline that shouldn’t exist, talking to myself like a woman who has completely lost her grip on reality.
Which. Fair.
The light here is wrong again. Too warm by at least 500 Kelvin—like shooting through a gold reflector no one asked for. My photographer brain keeps trying to color-correct this world. It never works.
Mrs. Lyme has already disappeared into the crowd, probably grateful to escape the strange bride-shaped person who accosted her outside the market. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either right now.
Focus. What matters?
One: find out the truth about Amos.
Two: save Abigail’s life.
Three: go back to my old world.
Simple. Clean. A nice little list that doesn’t include anything about golden eyes or French vowels or the way he saidyou are unfit to be my queenin that flat, terrible voice while the staff cried and my heart—
Nope. Not thinking about that.
And if I’m very, very blessed, maybe Hewhay will be merciful and wipe my memory clean when this is over. Maybe I’ll wake up in my tiny apartment with no recollection of underground weddings or mafia kings or what it felt like to be held by someone who looked at me like I was worth keeping.
Maybe I won’t even remember falling in love.
Maybe I won’t remember getting my heart bro—
Is that Abigail?
I blink. Rub my eyes with the heel of my hand. Blink again.
Honey-blonde hair catching the afternoon light at what my photographer brain automatically identifies as golden hour—that perfect 5 PM glow that makes everyone look like they belong in a magazine. Delicate features. Luminous skin. She’s walking down the street with a shopping bag swinging from one arm, and she’salive.
She’s alive and I can keep her that way.
I start walking. Then walking faster. Then—okay, “running” is a generous term for what I’m doing. It’s more like aggressive waddling, because wedding dresses were not designed for pursuit, and these heels are actively trying to murder me, and I’m pretty sure I just stepped on my own hem—
I stumble. Catch myself on a lamppost. A man walking his dog gives me a wide berth.
“I’m fine,” I tell him with as much dignity as I can muster. “This is normal. Brides chase people all the time.”
He walks faster.
Abigail turns into a bridal boutique. The bell above the door chimes as she disappears inside.
Perfect. A bridal boutique. At least I’ll blend in.
I follow, yanking my skirt up so I don’t trip again, and push through the door.
The interior is all soft lighting and champagne-colored walls, warm color temperature—maybe 3000K—designed to make every bride look radiant. Racks of white gowns line the walls like a ghost convention. The air smells like gardenias and new fabric and the faint chemical sweetness of dress preservation spray. A saleswoman looks up at my entrance, takes in my disheveled dress, my wind-tangled hair, my slightly manic expression, and her eyebrows climb toward her hairline.
“I’m, um.” I gesture vaguely at myself. “Long story. Very long. Incredibly long. You wouldn’t believe how long.”
