“And what happens when this plan falls apart spectacularly?”Tommy asks.“Because it will, my dear brother.Plans involving your particular brand of self-destructive nobility always do.”
I don’t have an answer for that question.Instead, I pour myself another whiskey, even though I know it won’t help.
After Tommy leaves—still concerned, still skeptical, but ultimately supportive because that’s what we do—I stand alone in my penthouse, building the armor back up piece by piece.
Next time I see Serena, I’ll be professional.Distant.Safe.
I’ll treat this marriage like the operation it is.Clear objectives, defined parameters, minimal emotional involvement.I’ve conducted hundreds of missions under worse circumstances with less intel.This should be fine.
Except when I close my eyes, I don’t see Abeera’s hand reaching from the rubble.I see Serena’s amber eyes, the green flecks in them enticing.I see her expression, fierce yet vulnerable.I see her trust that I will help her.
I can’t let her become important to me.
But the thought already rings hollow.
The armor I’m building has cracks, fissures that let in light where there should only be darkness.And the most terrifying part isn’t that Serena might get hurt because of me.
It’s that I might not survive losing her.
And I’m not sure I would want to.
6
Serena
Istand in the shower long after the water runs cold, watching Boston’s skyline blur through the steam-fogged glass.My penthouse bathroom—all marble and chrome and expensive emptiness—feels like a cage tonight.Or maybe a confessional.
What have I done?
The question circles through my mind like a vulture, patient and persistent.I asked Shelby Boyle to marry me.Not in some distant, theoretical future where I’d have time to prepare myself and build proper defenses.I asked him to fly to Vegas with me.Tomorrow.To make this fake arrangement real before my father can force me into Cesare Dellamare’s cold, dead hands.
I press my forehead against the cool tile and force myself to breathe when the butterflies go bat-shit crazy inside my belly.
Strategic.I remind myself.The word has become a mantra since Shelby said yes this morning.This move is strategic.Nothing more.
The water shuts off automatically—some energy-efficient feature I never bothered to disable—and the sudden silence feels accusatory.I grab a towel and wrap it around myself, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.I don’t want to see what my eyes might reveal.
My phone buzzes on the marble counter.Isabella’s name flashes across the screen with a text that makes my stomach tighten:I’m outside your door.Let me in before I use my key.
Of course she is.My sister has a sixth sense for when I’m spiraling, which means she probably felt the disturbance in the force the moment I walked into Shelby’s penthouse last night.
I consider ignoring her.I consider a lot of things in the thirty seconds it takes me to pull on silk pajamas and pad barefoot across the cold hardwood to my front door.
Isabella stands in the hallway wearing yoga pants and an oversized MIT sweatshirt, with her blonde hair piled on top of her head.She wears an expression I know too well: the one that says she’s prepared to lay siege until I surrender.
“I’m fine,” I say before she can speak.
“Liar.”My sister pushes past me into the apartment, heading straight for my kitchen.“You texted me last night saying you needed to talk, then went radio silent.That’s your tell, Serena.You do something impulsive and terrifying, then you lock yourself away to convince yourself it was purely strategic.”
I close the door and follow her through the expansive living room as she makes a beeline to the bar.I watch her efficiently uncork a fine Barolo I keep for emergencies.
“I don’t have a tell,” I mutter.
“Everyone has a tell.”She pours two generous glasses of the red wine and slides one across the marble island toward me.“Yours is radio silence followed by excessive rationalization.So.What did you do?”
I plop down on a stool and wrap my fingers around the wine glass.I lift it, swirling the wine, watching the liquid slosh around.The weight of the crystal glass grounds me.
When I’m sure my voice won’t falter, I give my sister the answer she’s after.“I asked Shelby Boyle to marry me.”
