I don’t answer at first. I’m not sure I heard him correctly. The words hang in the air between us, light and casual, like he’s just informed me of a dinner reservation.
“Two… days?” I repeat, my voice thin, brittle. “Noah, the guests?—”
“They’ll be informed,” he cuts in smoothly. “Anyone important can rearrange their schedule. Anyone who can’t was never essential.”
My stomach drops, a sick, lurching plunge, like I’ve missed a step and my body hasn’t caught up yet.
“That’s not how weddings work,” I say, forcing a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears. “You can’t just?—”
“I can,” he says, and finally, finally, he looks at me.
There’s no rage in his expression. No heat. Just something cold and sharp and utterly convinced of itself.
“And I am.”
The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. I stare out the window, watching the jungle blur past, my reflection ghosted over the glass—perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect bride-to-be. If anyone looked at me now, they’d see composure. Wealth. Calm.
They wouldn’t see the way my pulse is trying to claw its way out of my throat.
“You’re doing this because of yesterday,” I say quietly.
Noah smiles.
It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m doing this because delays create opportunities,” he replies. “And I don’t like opportunities when they’re not mine.”
The car turns sharply, leaving the main road and gliding through the wrought-iron gates of a private estate perched above the sea. White stone, arched windows, manicured gardens exploding with flowers that look too perfect to be real. Somewhere below us, waves crash rhythmically against the rocks, a steady, unbothered pulse.
A bridal salon waits at the top of the drive.
Of course it does.
Inside, everything smells like money and flowers and quiet obedience. Women in linen and silk glide toward us with practiced smiles, eyes flicking to Noah with instant recognition. Power recognises power. They don’t ask questions. They don’t blink when Noah tells them the timeline.
“Two days,” he says again, as if the words are a spell. “She’ll need a dress. Simple. Elegant. No drama.”
I want to scream.
Instead, I nod.
I always nod.
They pull gowns from racks like offerings—ivory, pearl, bone-white silk that slides over my skin like a lie. I stand on a platform while hands adjust and pin and smooth, while Noah sits in a chair behind me, watching my reflection with a gaze that feels more like inventory than desire.
“This one,” he says eventually, gesturing lazily. “It photographs well.”
I look at myself in the mirror.
I look like a sacrifice.
My phone vibrates against my thigh.
Once.
Then again.
I don’t need to look to know who it is.
