“Done,” he says.
And then he’s on his phone.
“Wait.What?Nate?—”
He holds up a hand.Shakes his head.Keeps talking.Fast.Calm.Efficient.
Like this is normal.
Like arranging emergency elopements is something he does between coffee runs and studio sessions.
I stand there, jaw dangling, as he makes calls.
Private plane?Booked.
Destination?Vegas.
Timeline?Two hours.
Two.
Freaking.
Hours.
I think I dissociate for a solid twenty minutes.
Because the next thing I know, I’m climbing into a limo with my mother and Bella—who we picked up early from school because of a “family emergency” that’s just conveniently vague enough to get away with—and Nathan is chatting with both of them like they’re all old friends reuniting over brunch instead of whatever the heck THIS is.
Bella is starstruck.
Mom is giddy.
I am dying slowly and dramatically inside.
I told Mom the truth—or, well, a truth—after Nathan drove me home and casually announced that we were getting married.
Getting married.
As in, me.
Marrying Nathan Thorn.
Rockstar, heartbreaker, global phenomenon, destroyer of my teen soul.
In a few hours.
For real.
And I’m trying not to freak out, but every cell in my body is vibrating like a shaken snow globe.
Mom, meanwhile, is thrilled.
“This is so exciting!”she keeps saying, patting my knee.“What a whirlwind!I should call Lorraine—no, wait, she’ll tell everyone, better not—but oh!Should I get a new dress?Adrianna, should I get a new dress?”
“No, Mom,” I croak.“We don’t have time to invite any more chaos.”
Nathan just smiles charmingly at her like this is all some precious Hallmark moment and not a legal strategy to protect a child from a dangerous man.
