Mrs. Holloway opens the door. Donovan steps inside, his military bearing evident in every movement. He's efficient, thorough, and completely loyal to my father.
"The ceremony will begin at eleven hundred hours." He consults his tablet. "Security perimeter is established. Guests will pass through metal detectors at the gate. Your processional will start from the second-floor landing, proceed down the main staircase, through the gallery, and out to the garden pavilion."
He continues listing protocols—where I'll stand, when I'll move, how many steps from the house to the altar. Seventy-three, apparently. I'll be counting every one.
"Additional security personnel arrived this morning. Contract staff to supplement our team for crowd control. All properly vetted."
I nod mechanically. Like I care. What does it matter? Prison guards by any other name.
"Any questions?"
"No."
He leaves. Mrs. Holloway squeezes my shoulder once before following him out. The door clicks shut, and I'm alone again with my reflection and my racing pulse.
I don't know how long I sit there—minutes? hours?—before Father arrives.
He doesn't knock. Never has. This is his house, his domain, and I am simply another possession within it.
"Stand up."
I obey, my legs unsteady beneath the silk robe I'm wearing over my undergarments.
Father circles me like a buyer inspecting livestock. His cold blue eyes catalog every detail, searching for flaws. "Remember what's at stake today. This marriage secures everything—the company, our position, our future. Your duty is to smile, say your vows, and produce an heir within the year."
My hands clench at my sides, hidden in the folds of my robe. An heir. I'm nothing more than a broodmare.
"The Harringtons expect certain... standards." He continues his slow circuit. "You will be a perfect wife. Gracious, elegant, obedient. You will reflect well on this family. Any deviation from that—any embarrassment, any scandal—will have consequences."
I know what those consequences are. He's made them abundantly clear. Complete financial ruin. Social destruction. Criminal charges fabricated from thin air. My father has enough money and influence to bury me so deep I'd never see daylight again.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
"Good." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "Your mother would have been proud."
The lie is so audacious it steals my breath. My mother would have burned this house down before allowing this.
The door closes behind him with a finality that echoes in my bones.
I'm shaking now, a fine tremor that starts in my hands and spreads through my entire body. I sink onto the chaise, pressing my palms against my thighs to make it stop, but it only gets worse.
Another knock. More measured, almost apologetic.
Marcus enters with a bottle of champagne on a silver tray. "From Mr. Harrington." His voice is quiet, his expression carefully neutral.
There's a card tucked beside the bottle. I open it with trembling fingers.
Can't wait to unwrap my gift tonight. Your innocence will look beautiful surrendered on silk sheets. —P
The vulgarity of it, the entitled cruelty, makes bile rise in my throat. I lunge for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I'm sick. The half-croissant, the coffee, everything comes back up until I'm dry-heaving over the porcelain.
When I finally emerge, mouth rinsed, Marcus is still there. He pours the champagne down the sink.
"I took the liberty." His voice is soft. Our gazes meet for just a moment—a flash of sympathy quickly hidden. Even the staff knows what kind of man I'm being sold to.
"Thank you." The whisper is all I can manage.
