Five hundred faces turn to watch my descent into hell, their expressions ranging from envious to pitying to coldly calculating. Mrs. Astoria Vanderbilt dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief—not from emotion but from the pollen of the ten thousand white roses Father insisted on. Senator Blackwood whispers something to his mistress, both of them eyeing my dress with the appreciation of people who know exactly how much misery costs.
Fifty thousand dollars of Belgian lace. Seventy thousand dollars of hand-sewn pearls. A four-hundred-thousand-dollar dress for a marriage worth thirty million in merged assets.
They've turned me into a walking spreadsheet.
Father's grip on my arm is a vise wrapped in paternal affection. His fingers dig into the flesh above my elbow, finding the exact pressure point that sends shoots of pain up to my shoulder without leaving marks that would show in the wedding photos. He's perfected this hold over years—the loving fatherguiding his daughter while simultaneously dragging her to her doom.
"Smile." He whispers through his own practiced expression of joy. "Every camera in France is watching."
He's not wrong. Hundreds of phones rise, their black eyes recording every second of my humiliation for posterity and social media. The official photographer—a woman with sharp eyes—circles us like a predator, her camera clicking in rapid succession.
Each step is carefully measured to match the processional music—Pachelbel's Canon—because Father lacks the imagination to choose something original for selling his daughter. My train trails behind me, six feet of silk and suffering that my cousin's daughters carry with sticky fingers that will undoubtedly leave chocolate stains before this farce is over.
I catalog faces as we pass each row, my mind desperate for anything to focus on besides the altar ahead.
Row five: The Bernardis, who made their fortune in weapons manufacturing and now pretend they've always been old money.
Row twelve: Senator Dubois with his third wife, who's younger than his eldest daughter and already eyeing the groomsmen.
Row eighteen: My finishing school classmates, their faces carefully neutral because they know exactly what this is but would never dare say it aloud.
Row twenty-three: Mrs. Holloway, standing at the edge in her best dress, her eyes meeting mine with something that might be sorrow or might be resignation.
And then, scattered throughout like hidden promises, faces I don't recognize. The photographer whose movements are too precise, too aware. A caterer near the gift table whose shoulders suggest military training. A security guard scanning the crowd rather than watching the ceremony.
Hope flickers in my chest, dangerous and desperate.
But then the altar comes into view, and hope turns to ash.
Prescott stands there like he's posing for a portrait of conquest. His coat fits perfectly, every hair in place, his eyes bright with anticipation that makes my stomach revolt. He watches me approach the way a spider watches a fly entering its web—patient, certain, already savoring the meal to come.
His best man, Thomas Ashford, leans in to whisper something that makes Prescott's smile widen. Probably discussing their plans for the bachelor party they held last week, the one where Prescott assured his friends that after tonight, I'd be "properly broken in."
The altar itself is a monument to excess. Roses, lilies, and gardenias create an archway with a scent that is overwhelming, cloying, like being buried alive in a florist shop. White silk drapes every surface, turning God's altar into a display of wealth that has nothing to do with love or sanctity.
The priest stands in the center of it all. His face serene, willfully blind to what he's really doing here. The Church has been well-compensated for his selective vision.
Three more steps.
Two.
One.
My father stops at the base of the altar, finally releasing my arm. The blood rushes back into the bruised flesh, pins and needles of returning circulation that I hide behind my bouquet—white roses for purity I lost long ago, not to Prescott but to the truth about what my family really is.
"Who gives this woman to be married?" The priest's voice carries across the silent garden.
"I do." Father announces, loud enough for the back rows to hear. Proud. Possessive. Final.
He lifts my veil, his lips brushing my cheek in a kiss that looks tender but feels like a brand. "Don't disappoint me." Quiet enough that only I can hear.
Then he places my hand in Prescott's.
The touch is an immediate violation. Prescott's palm is damp with anticipation, his fingers closing around mine with the grip of ownership. He pulls me up the two steps to stand beside him, and I'm close enough now to smell his cologne—too much, as always, trying to cover the scent of his excitement that borders on arousal.
"You look exquisite." His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Worth the wait."
The priest opens his ceremonial book, its pages edged in gold that catches the morning sun. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
