He nods and leaves me alone again.
The wedding dressarrives at nine-thirty.
It's a masterpiece of couture—French lace, Italian silk, Austrian crystals. The bodice is structured like armor, with boning that will hold me rigid and upright even if I wanted to collapse. The skirt is layers upon layers of tulle and organza, so voluminous that I'll need help walking. The train is twelve feet long, heavy with beadwork that catches the light like captured stars.
It's suffocating perfection.
The seamstress and her assistant help me into it, their hands quick and efficient as they button the forty-seven closures running up my spine. Another number to count. Another way to be trapped—I'll never get out of this dress without help.
The corset cinches tight, forcing my posture straight, my breathing shallow. The weight of the skirt pulls at my hips. The sleeves—delicate lace—restrict the movement of my arms. Every inch of this gown is designed to constrain, to transform me into an ornamental object.
"Stunning." The seamstress steps back, declaring her work complete.
The woman in the full-length mirror is a stranger—a beautiful, expensive stranger being prepared for sacrifice.
My grandmother's earrings are the final touch. Ruby drops that match the necklace I should be wearing—the one currentlylocked in the vault below my feet. The Swan. The secret I whispered to Paul in the dark.
I fasten the earrings with shaking hands, the weight of them pulling at my lobes. These, at least, are mine. A piece of my grandmother, a connection to something real in this pageant of lies.
I move to the window, the dress rustling like dead leaves with each step.
The garden has been transformed. White chairs arranged in perfect rows, hundreds of them, creating an aisle down the center. The pavilion at the end is draped in silk and flowers. A string quartet tuning their instruments in the corner. Waiters setting up champagne stations. Security personnel positioned at every exit.
It's beautiful. Grotesque. A gilded cage dressed up as a fairy tale.
The guests are starting to arrive. Luxury cars pull up the drive, disgorging women in designer gowns and men in bespoke suits. Society's elite, here to witness my destruction and call it a celebration.
Another knock. Different this time—lighter, more cheerful.
"Florist delivery!" A woman's voice calls.
I turn from the window as a woman enters carrying an enormous arrangement of white peonies and roses. She's perhaps thirty, with bouncing blonde hair, vivacious blue eyes, and an easy smile that seems out of place in this house of cold perfection.
"Vivianne Faulks?" She clearly knows who I am.
"Yes."
"I'm Charlie. Margaux sent me to do the final floral setup for the bridal suite and to make sure your bouquet is perfect." She sets down the arrangement and pulls out a smaller bouquet—white roses, lily of the valley, sprigs of rosemary. "Somethingold, something new, something borrowed, something blue. The blue is subtle—tiny forget-me-nots hidden in the center."
Forget-me-not. An odd choice for a wedding bouquet. Almost like a message.
Charlie moves around the room, adjusting flower arrangements, checking that everything is perfect. But her eyes—her eyes are taking in everything. The locked door to the hallway. The window overlooking the garden. The layout of the suite.
She returns to where I stand, making a show of adjusting my bouquet. Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "Your friend sent me. The one who appreciates art." Her eyes meet mine meaningfully. "He asked me to make sure you still want what he's offering."
Paul. She means Paul.
My breath catches. My hands tremble around the bouquet stems.
"I need to hear you say it." Charlie's fingers stay busy with the flowers, her face angled away from the door. "Do you want out? Because once this starts, there's no going back."
Everything in me screams yes. Every cell, every breath, every desperate hope I've been trying to bury.
"Yes." The word escapes as a whisper. "God, yes. Please."
Charlie's smile doesn't change, but something shifts in her eyes—determination, satisfaction. "Good. When the ceremony starts, stay alert. No matter what happens, trust the chaos. Can you do that?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
