"Nothing, miss." But her hand trembles slightly as she smooths her apron. "Will you be taking lunch in here?"
"I'm not hungry."
Another hesitation. "You should eat something. Keep your strength up."
For what? For addressing five hundred invitations to people who'll watch me marry a monster? For surviving a wedding night that Prescott's already promised will break me?
"I'll have tea. Thank you."
She nods and withdraws, closing the door softly behind her.
Five hundred names to write. Five hundred envelopes to address. Five hundred witnesses to summon to my execution.
I pick up the calligraphy pen. My hand still shakes.
The first name on the list: Mr. and Mrs. William Vanderbilt.
I dip the pen in ink. Press it to paper. Form the first letter.
And count down the hours until Paul comes to save me.
He will come.
He has to.
Because if he doesn't, in seven days, I'll cease to exist.
TWENTY-THREE
Paul: Six Days
The holographic displaybathes the war room in cold blue light, turning everyone into ghosts. I lean forward, hands braced on the table's edge, staring at the three-dimensional rendering of the Faulks estate. Every window. Every door. Every potential exit.
Every barrier between me and Vivianne.
My fingers itch to reach into the hologram, to tear through the digital walls and pull her out. Five weeks since she posted that cryptic message about Paris gardens and three-month countdowns. Five weeks of planning, preparing, assembling this team.
Six days until the wedding.
Six days until I lose her forever.
"You listening, de Gaulle?"
Jenny's voice cuts through my thoughts like a switchblade. She stands across the table, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. The woman radiates authority—shoulders back, spine straight, every inch the tactical commander. Her dark skin gleams in the holographic light, and those sharp eyes miss nothing.
"Every word." I straighten, meeting her gaze. Refusing to be cowed.
She doesn't look convinced. The silence stretches, taut as wire, until Merlin shifts beside me. His hand lands on my shoulder—a warning or support, maybe both.
"The estate's security is formidable." Jenny manipulates the display. The hologram zooms in, revealing guard positions, camera placements, and patrol routes marked in pulsing red. "Twenty-four-seven surveillance. Rotating guard shifts. Motion sensors on every accessible entry point."
"Which is why we're not breaking in." Mac's voice rumbles from the corner like distant thunder. The man is a mountain—six and a half feet of solid muscle packed into tactical black. His arms are crossed, biceps straining against fabric. "We're walking in."
"Elaborate." Merlin leans forward, his weathered hands folding on the table. Always calm. Always assessing. Seventy years of stealing priceless art has taught him patience I'll never master.
Jenny taps the display. Two figures materialize—generic male silhouettes with credential badges floating beside them. "Mac and Blaze infiltrate as last-minute security hires. We've already planted your backgrounds in their system. Ex-military. Impeccable references. Exactly what Faulks is looking for to beef up protection for his daughter's wedding."
"Because nothing says 'happy celebration' like a small army." Blaze speaks for the first time since we gathered. He's leaner than Mac, all coiled energy and restless movement. His eyes never stop tracking—cataloging exits, assessing threats, calculating angles. "What's our cover story for the sudden hiring?"
