"You're braver than you know." She squeezes my hand once—brief, reassuring. Then, in a normal voice, "Everything looks beautiful. You make a stunning bride."
"Thank you." The words come from somewhere far away.
She hands me a business card—"Margaux's Floral Designs"—though we both know I'll never need it. Then she's gone, leaving only the scent of flowers and that dangerous, brilliant spark of hope burning in my chest.
The following hours blur together.The wedding coordinator arrives, fussing over my dress, my hair, my posture. Photographers taking pre-ceremony shots. The house fills with noise—voices, laughter, the clink of champagne glasses.
Through it all, I'm numb. Floating outside my body, watching this happen to someone else.
At ten-forty-five, Marcus appears at my door. "It's time."
Something lurches in my chest. Too soon. Not ready. Will never be ready.
He escorts me downstairs to where Father waits at the base of the grand staircase. Behind him, the gallery stretches—guests assembled, waiting for the show to begin.
Prescott's mother stands near the door in ice-blue silk, her sharp eyes assessing me like I'm a piece of furniture she's not sure will match her décor. She nods once—approval or dismissal, I can't tell.
The wedding coordinator fusses with my train, arranging it just so. She checks her watch, her clipboard, her earpiece. Everything must be perfect. Everything must go according to plan.
Father offers his arm. His grip is iron as my hand settles in the crook of his elbow.
"Don't disappoint me." Quiet. Final.
I want to scream. To run. To set this entire house ablaze and dance in the ashes.
Instead, I nod.
We walk through the gallery—past the Monet I used to dream in front of as a child, past the sculpture of Diana the Huntress that Mother always loved, past the window seat where I'd read on rainy afternoons. Every step takes me further from the girl I was, closer to the woman I'll be forced to become.
The processional doors open. Sunlight streams in, bright and merciless.
Hundreds of faces turned toward me. Prescott at the altar in his custom tuxedo, that predatory smile fixed in place. The officiant with his book of vows. The string quartet with their bows poised.
Someone signals. The musicians lift their instruments.
The first notes of the wedding march begin.
Father pulls me forward.
And I step toward my own execution.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Paul: The Vault
The monitor fillswith white silk and imprisoned beauty.
Vivianne descends the grand staircase, and even through Jenny's button camera feed, she takes my breath away. The wedding dress is a masterpiece of perfection—countless pearls, French lace, a train that trails behind her like chains made of cloud. But it's her face that stops me cold.
Blank. Empty.
Like she's already gone somewhere deep inside where they can't reach her.
"Target is mobile." Jenny's voice crackles through comms, professional and detached. "Moving toward the garden ceremony site."
Target.Not Vivianne. Not the woman I love.Target.
"That's our cue." Merlin is already moving toward the van's rear doors.
