"It's time for the dress," announces Vivian, clapping her hands sharply to clear the room of unnecessary personnel.
Two assistants bring it forward on its padded hanger—seventy-five thousand dollars of hand-embroidered silk and rarelace. I slip out of my robe, standing in my custom La Perla lingerie as they carefully lower the gown over my head.
The weight of it settles on my shoulders, cool silk against my skin. One assistant kneels to arrange the train while another fastens the dozens of tiny pearl buttons up my back.
"Breathe in, please, Miss Easton," one murmurs, and I comply mechanically.
The dress fits perfectly, of course. It was made to. I stare at my reflection as they fuss with the veil, arranging it just so around my face.
The woman in the mirror looks like a princess from a fairy tale.
"You look absolutely divine," gushes one of the makeup artists.
I turn, giving them all the radiant smile they expect. "Thank you. I feel... incredible."
Someone knocks at the door.
"Come in," I call.
Byron steps inside, immaculate in his tuxedo. When our eyes meet in the mirror, something shifts in his expression. For once, the coldness is gone, replaced by something I've rarely seen—emotion.
"Zoe," he breathes, and his voice actually trembles. "You look... extraordinary."
He approaches slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. When he stands behind me, I can see both our reflections—me in white, him in black, the picture of father and daughter.
His hands rest gently on my shoulders, and I'm surprised by the comfort I feel from his touch.
"I know I've been hard on you," he says, his voicesofter than I've ever heard it. "Preparing you for this world hasn't allowed much room for... sentiment."
Something twists in my chest. In all our years together, Byron has never apologized, never acknowledged the emotional distance he's kept. Now, on my wedding day—of all days—he's showing me a glimpse of the father I've always wanted him to be.
"You've done everything for me," I say, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside.
His eyes shine with what looks suspiciously like tears. "You deserved better than what I could give you, Zoe. I'm not... good at showing affection. But I need you to know—" he pauses, clearing his throat. "I need you to know how proud I am. Of you. Of the woman you've become."
I wonder if this is real or just another performance. Does he actually care for me, or is this part of our grand deception? Has there been love beneath the cold behaviour?
"It's time," he says, offering his arm. "Are you ready?"
I take his arm, feeling hollow and full all at once. "I'm ready."
The car waiting outside is a gleaming white Rolls Royce, decorated with subtle white flowers. Byron helps me inside, careful of my dress and train, then slides in beside me.
As we pull away from the mansion, I stare out the window at the passing scenery. The city looks different today—brighter, sharper, as if I'm seeing it through new eyes.
The church looms before me, its stone facade stretching toward the sky like something from another era. I feel the weight of history pressing down as Byronhelps me from the car, careful not to disturb my elaborate train.
The church doors open, and I'm hit by a wave of perfume, cologne, and the heavy scent of flowers. My heart thunders against my ribs as I take in the sea of faces turned toward me. Hundreds of people—most of whom I've never met—rise to their feet at my entrance.
I scan the crowd from behind my veil. The front rows hold Byron's business associates—men with hard eyes and expensive suits. I recognize Senator Mitchell, whose campaigns Byron has funded for years, and Judge Harriman, who mysteriously dismisses cases against Byron's interests.
Further back, I spot faces from newspaper articles and Byron's intelligence files—crime bosses, corrupt officials, and legitimate businessmen who've made devil's bargains. They're all connected by invisible threads of power, money, and secrets.
Women in designer dresses assess my dress. Children fidget in their formal clothes. Security personnel line the walls, their expressions blank but eyes vigilant.
It strikes me that not a single person here is truly my friend. Even Scarlett couldn't attend—I'd insisted she stay away, far from this dangerous theater.
The string quartet transitions to the wedding march. My cue.
