CHAPTER 7
THE BLACK VEIL
POV: IVY
I am standing on a pedestal.
Literally. A small, velvet-covered circular platform in the center of the guest bedroom.
"You have the waist of a wasp, honey," the stylist says, her mouth full of pins. Her name is Chloe. She has platinum blonde hair, a bright pink pantsuit, and absolutely no idea that she is dressing a hostage. "Mr. Vane said you were petite, but my god, you’re like a little porcelain doll. I’m terrified I’m going to break you."
I’m already broken,I think, but I don't say it. I just stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror Chloe brought with her.
The woman staring back at me looks like a stranger.
Her skin has been scrubbed, moisturized, and highlighted until it glows with an unnatural luminescence. Her hair, usually a frizzy mess of caramel waves, has been tamed into a sleek, glossy waterfall that cascades down her back, pinned away from her face with pearl clips. Her lips are painted a deep, bruised berry color.
And the dress.
It’s not white.
"It’s champagne silk with a black lace overlay," Chloe chatters on, adjusting the hem. "Vintage Dior, adapted. Mr. Vane was very specific. He didn't want pure white. He said it was... too innocent."
I shiver. The dress is breathtaking, objectively. It has a high, Victorian neckline that chokes me gently with lace, and long, fitted sleeves that end in points over the backs of my hands. The bodice is tight, acting like a corset, holding me upright when all I want to do is collapse.
But the back... the back is open. A deep, plunging V that exposes my spine all the way down to the small of my back. It makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like I’m armored in front but defenseless from behind.
"He has excellent taste," Chloe says, stepping back to admire her work. "Most billionaires just throw a credit card at a personal shopper. But he picked this out himself. He even sent the measurements. He must really love you."
I look at the dark circles under my eyes, carefully concealed with expensive concealer. "Yeah. He’s obsessed."
Chloe laughs, thinking I’m joking. "Well, with a face like that, who wouldn't be? You’re a lucky girl, Ivy. Do you know how many women in this city would kill to be in your shoes right now? Silas Vane is... well, he’s a king."
"And I’m the tribute," I whisper.
"What was that, hon?"
"Nothing." I step down from the pedestal, my legs trembling. "Is it time?"
Chloe checks her watch. "Five minutes. The judge is setting up in the living room. Or, I guess, theGreat Hall. That room is bigger than my entire apartment building."
She hands me a bouquet. It’s not roses. It’s dark purple calla lilies, almost black, tied with a velvet ribbon. They look like funeral flowers.
"Ready?" she asks, beaming.
I nod, because if I speak, I might vomit.
She leads me to the door. I feel like I’m walking to the gallows.
The hallway is dim. The art on the walls seems to watch me as we pass. We reach the end of the corridor, where the living room opens up.
The sun has set. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows are now walls of darkness, reflecting the interior of the penthouse like black mirrors. The city lights of Manhattan twinkle below, a million indifferent stars.
Silas is waiting.
He is standing in front of the fireplace, his back to the wall of glass. He has changed. He’s wearing a black tuxedo that fits him like a second skin, tailored to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. He looks lethal. Elegant.
When I step into the room, he stops talking to the man beside him—the judge, a balding man in a cheap suit who looks nervous.
