The night before the rehearsal dinner, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Sleep is impossible. My mind races with thoughts of escape that go nowhere. Dead ends and locked doors and guards who watch my every move.
What if I tried again? How far could I get?
And what happens when they catch me?
Tap.
I freeze. Hold my breath. Wait.
Tap tap.
It's coming from the window.
My pulse slams against my ribs as I slip out of bed. The floor is cold under my bare feet. Each step feels loud enough to wake the house.
I ease aside the curtain.
Bumblebees hover outside the glass. Their bodies glow faintly in the moonlight—impossible, beautiful, real.
They move, forming letters against the dark.
Wedding. Be ready.
My hands shake as I unlatch the window. Cool night air rushes in, carrying the scent of roses, earth, and possibility.
"How?" The whisper barely makes it past my lips. "What do I need to?—"
But they're already dispersing. Melting into the darkness like they were never there.
I close the window. Lean my forehead against the cool glass.
They're coming. Paul is coming.
For the first time in months, hope flickers in my chest. Small. Fragile. But alive.
I don't sleep. Can't. My mind spins with possibilities, fears, and desperate plans.
Dawn breaks slowly. The sky shifts from black to gray to pale gold. I watch it all from my window, memorizing the colors in case I never see them again.
Because this is it. Today is the rehearsal dinner.
Tomorrow is my wedding day.
The day Paul will come for me. Or the day I lose everything.
The house eruptsinto chaos before I've finished my first cup of coffee. Hair stylists. Makeup artists. The seamstress with last-minute adjustments to the dress I didn't choose.
They pull and pin and paint. Transform me into someone I don't recognize. A bride. A doll. A prize to be displayed.
Through it all, I'm hyperaware. Watching. Listening. Searching for any sign, any clue of what's to come.
As evening approaches, luxury cars begin arriving. The circular drive fills with Mercedes, Bentleys, and sleek black town cars. Guests emerge in designer clothes and too much jewelry, laughing, air-kissing, pretending we're all here for something joyful.
I stand at the top of the grand staircase. Prescott's arm wraps around my waist—possessive, proprietary. His fingers dig into my hip through the silk of my dress.
"You look beautiful, darling." His breath is hot against my ear. Too close. Always too close. "Keep this up, and we might just make it through without incident."
I suppress a shudder. Force my mouth into a smile as the first guests reach us.
