"Agreed. But the pendant is an object." He turns to face me. "Vivianne is a woman. The woman you love. Don't let me lose someone else I care about because I couldn't let go of the past."
The words hit like a blow. Physical. Stunning.
"I can do both." But even to my ears, it sounds hollow.
"Maybe." He moves to the door. Pauses with his hand on the handle. "Or maybe you'll have to choose. And when that moment comes—when you're standing in that house with seconds to decide—make sure you choose right."
He leaves. The door clicks shut. And I'm alone with my thoughts.
With the truth I don't want to face.
I stare out at the darkness, and for the first time since this all began, I wonder if I can do this. If I'm strong enough to make the right choice when it matters.
The hologram flickers to life on the desk—Mitzy must have left a portable unit. The Faulks estate rotates slowly, its walls glowing soft blue.
Somewhere in there, Vivianne is counting down the hours.
Waiting for rescue.
Trusting me to choose her.
I reach out, my fingers passing through the holographic walls. Grasping at nothing.
Please let me be strong enough.
But in the reflection on my window, I'm not sure I recognize the man staring back.
TWENTY-FOUR
Vivianne: The Rehearsal Dinner
The napkin debatehas been going on for twenty minutes.
Twenty. Minutes.
I stare at the fabric swatches spread across Father's desk—ivory, cream, pearl, eggshell—all variations of the same colorless nothing. Mrs. Holloway hovers nearby, wringing her hands, waiting for a decision I don't care to make.
"The ivory is too yellow." Prescott leans over my shoulder, his cologne coating the back of my throat. "Pearl is better. More elegant."
Elegant.Everything must be elegant. Perfect. Befitting the union of two powerful families.
I want to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
"Fine." The word comes out flat. Dead. "Pearl."
Mrs. Holloway scurries away, relieved to escape. I don't blame her.
The days blur together now. Tastings where I push food around plates. Fittings where seamstresses pin and tuck fabric I never chose. Endless conversations about flowers and fonts and whether the string quartet knows our first dance song.
Our.As if I had any say in it. As if this wedding is something we're building together instead of a cage being constructed around me, one pearl napkin at a time.
Through it all, I escape to the gardens whenever possible. Searching for bumblebees. For any sign that Paul's message was real. That help is coming.
But the flowers remain stubbornly still. Only regular honeybees going about their business, oblivious to my desperation.
Days before the wedding,I'm trapped in Father's study again. The air is thick with cigar smoke and expensive whiskey. The smell makes my stomach turn.
"The rehearsal dinner is in three days." Father doesn't look up from his papers. His pen scratches across documents—contracts, probably. Or prenuptials. Legal shackles to match the emotional ones. "I expect you to be on your best behavior. No more moping around like you're attending a funeral."
