Merlin looks at me. I nod.
"Ready."
"Copy all. We are go for Operation Swan Song." Jenny's voice is steady, professional. "Execute on my mark at ceremony start. Stay sharp, stay safe, and let's bring them home."
My hand goes to the tactical vest under my jacket. The weight of the Glock is reassuring. The lock picks in my sleeve, the smoke grenades in my pockets, the knife in my boot—all tools I hope I won't need but won't hesitate to use.
Merlin checks his own equipment one final time, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out something unexpected—a small pistol, vintage but well-maintained.
"Just in case."
"You hate guns."
"I hate losing family more." His faded blue eyes meet mine. "We're getting her out, and we're getting the Swan. Trust the team to do their part. We do ours."
On the monitors, guests begin arriving. Expensive cars, designer clothes, false smiles. Somewhere in that house,Vivianne is trapped in a wedding dress, preparing for a ceremony that will never happen.
Because we're about to steal both the bride and the treasure.
My pulse pounds as I check my watch. Two hours until the ceremony starts.
Two hours until we burn this whole charade to the ground.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Vivianne: The Gilded Cage
The stylist,a severe woman named Claudette, smells of hairspray and speaks only in commands. "Sit. Don't move. Tilt your head." She works in silence, transforming my long curls into an elaborate updo that requires forty-seven pins. I count each one as it scrapes against my scalp, a small rebellion that no one can take from me.
The makeup artist follows. Genevieve is gentler, but her tools are just as ruthless. Foundation that covers the circles under my eyes—evidence of three sleepless nights. Concealer for the bruise on my jaw from where Father grabbed me during our last argument. Powder to set it all in place, creating a mask of porcelain perfection.
"You have lovely bone structure." Genevieve tilts my chin to catch the light. "Like a painting."
I am a painting. Static, silent, decorative. Something to hang on Prescott's wall and show off to his colleagues.
She brushes shadow across my eyelids—champagne and gold to match the wedding colors. Liner that makes my eyes look larger, more innocent. Mascara that weighs down my lashesuntil blinking feels like an effort. Rouge on my cheeks. Gloss on my lips that tastes like chemicals and lies.
"There." She steps back to admire her work. "Beautiful."
The woman in the mirror is unrecognizable. She's perfect. Flawless. Empty.
Mrs. Holloway arrives as Genevieve is packing her brushes. The housekeeper who's known me since childhood looks at my transformed face, and her eyes go bright with unshed tears.
"Oh, Miss Vivianne." The whisper catches.
"Don't." I keep my voice soft. "If she cries, I'll break, and I can't break. Not yet."
She sets down the breakfast tray—croissants, fruit, coffee—but my stomach revolts at the sight. How am I supposed to eat when I can barely breathe?
"You should try." Mrs. Holloway slides the tray closer. "It's going to be a long day."
The longest. The last day I'll be myself before becoming Mrs. Prescott Harrington.
I force down half a croissant and immediately regret it. My stomach churns, threatening to expel even that small amount. I grip the edge of the vanity, breathing slowly through my nose until the nausea passes.
The knock on the door makes me flinch.
"Miss Faulks?" Donovan Price's voice carries through the wood—professional, emotionless. "Security briefing."
