"Go," I say, releasing her. "Eat your croissant. The stylist will be here soon. I want you perfect for our wedding."
She stumbles back, looking dazed. She touches her lips, then the ring. She looks like a sleepwalker.
She turns and flees the office, the blue silk flowing behind her like water.
I watch her go.
I turn back to the desk and look at the monitors. I watch her run into the kitchen, grab the bakery bag, and retreat to the living room, curling up on the sofa as far away from my office as possible.
I sit down and open the manila envelope.
I pull out the marriage license.
I pick up my fountain pen—a heavy, black Montblanc.
I look at the line forGroom.
I sign my name. Sharp. jagged. Permanent.
Then I look at the line forBride.
I don't need her signature. I already forged it last night, copying the loop of the 'y' from her sketchbook perfectly.
It’s done.
Legally, she’s already mine.
Tonight is just theater. But God, I love the theater.
I pick up the phone and dial Luca.
"Is everything ready?" I ask.
"Yes, Boss. Judge Harris is sober. The catering is set. And... we found the dress you ordered."
"Good. And the father?"
"Marcus is currently in a safe house in Jersey. He’s... unhappy. But alive."
"Keep him that way. For now. I want him to know his daughter is getting married. Send him a photo."
"A photo, sir?"
"Yes. A photo of Ivy in her wedding dress. Send it to him with the caption:Payment Received."
I hang up.
I lean back in the chair, spinning the pen between my fingers.
I look at the monitor showing Ivy. She’s eating the croissant, tearing off small pieces with trembling fingers. She looks terrified. She looks beautiful.
Tonight, she takes my name.
Tonight, the cage door locks for good.
And the best part? She thinks she’s doing it to survive. She doesn't realize that the real danger isn't the Russians.
The real danger is the man who is going to put a ring on her finger and never, ever let her take it off.
