"We have to trust them. It's the only way." Merlin exhales slowly, his gaze flicking between me and Sam.
I clench my jaw, every instinct screaming at me to act now, but the rational part of me knows they're right. "Fine. We'll do it your way."
"Don't worry. We'll get her out, and when we do, they won't be able to touch her." Sam's lips twitch into the slightest smile.
I glance at Merlin, knowing we've already left out one crucial piece of information: the Swan. That's a complication we'll handle ourselves. While they're liberating Vivianne, Merlin and I will liberate the Swan from the Faulks family for good.
Two weeks.Fourteen days. It feels like an eternity when every second ticks down. No formal wedding date has been announced yet, but it doesn't matter.
The Faulks name carries so much weight within the elite that when the invitations go out, they're not requests—they're commands. People will drop everything to attend the social event of the century. It doesn't matter if they're halfway across the world or in the middle of a crisis.
When the Faulks call, people answer. And as much as it kills me to admit it, Sam and Forest are right.
This needs to be public.
As Sam and Forest dive into the details with Merlin, I slip out onto the balcony. The night air is crisp, biting at my exposed skin. I welcome the cold, let it ground me in the present.
I close my eyes, picturing Vivianne's face. Her brilliant smile, the sparkle in her eyes when she talks about art. The quiet strength that radiates from her very being.
Behind me, the murmur of voices as plans are made and strategies formed. But my mind is already racing ahead, to the moment I'll hold Vivianne in my arms again, to the future we'll build together, free from the shadows of the past.
NINETEEN
Vivianne: The Bees
The crystal chandelierbleeds cold light across the formal dining room, turning everything sharp-edged and clinical. Like an operating theater. Like a place where things get dissected.
Two and a half months since I posted that desperate plea on social media. Sixty-seven days of waiting. Of hoping. Of watching that hope curdle into something that tastes like despair.
Two weeks until the wedding.
No word from Paul.
I smooth my dress for the third time in as many minutes. The silk is cool under my fingers, already perfect, but my hands need something to do. Something to keep them from shaking. From reaching for the phone they took away.
From clawing at the walls.
Prescott sits to my left, radiating satisfaction like heat from a furnace. His cologne—too heavy, too sweet—coats the back of my throat. Makes me want to gag. He shifts, and his thigh presses against mine under the table. Deliberate. A reminder of ownership.
Father sits at the head of the table like a king holding court. Every line of his body speaks of control—spine straight, shoulders back, hands folded precisely on the table. Even the way he breathes feels calculated.
Donovan stands by the door. Silent. Watchful. Always watching.
The clink of silverware against china seems obscenely loud. I push a piece of lamb around my plate, leaving tracks in the sauce. The meat smells rich, perfectly seasoned. My stomach churns with nausea.
When did I last eat? Really eat, not just move food around until someone stopped watching?
"The lamb is exquisite." Prescott's voice cuts through the silence. He lifts his wine glass, swirls the dark liquid. "Don't you agree, darling?"
The endearment scrapes against my nerves like nails on glass.
"It's lovely." I force my mouth into something resembling a smile.
Father's gaze flicks between us. Assessing. Measuring. Finding me wanting, as always. He sets down his knife, the blade aligned perfectly with his plate.
"I'm glad you're both enjoying it. Now, about the final preparations?—"
Prescott straightens in his chair. The movement is eager, puppyish. The chair scrapes against hardwood—too loud, making me flinch.
