Instead, I pull out the notebook from my desk drawer—the one with the worn cover and pages soft from use. Brown leather, cracked at the spine. The corners are rounded from being shoved in backpacks, from being held too tightly. My diary. The only place I can be honest.
I open to a blank page and start writing. My hand moves almost automatically, pen scratching across paper in the quiet room.
Three weeks. That's all I have left of the life I know. Three weeks before everything changes and I have to become someone else. Someone who fits into Richard Graves's world. Someone who belongs in an estate with marble floors and chandeliers that cost more than I'm worth.
I'm happy for Margot. I am. She deserves this. She deserves love and stability and a man who treats her like she's precious.
But I'm terrified.
What if his sons hate me? What if I don't fit? What if they see through me and realize I'm just—
I stop. My hand freezes mid-word. Cross out the last line. Hard. Violent scratches of ink that tear the paper slightly.
Start again.
What if I can't keep pretending I'm normal?
The pen trembles in my hand. I can see it shaking, making the letters uneven, childish.
I write until my hand cramps. I can see it shaking, making the letters uneven, childish. Until I've emptied every fear onto the page.
It doesn't make me feel better.
But at least it's out of my head.
Chapter 2
Idon't own a suit.
Margot buys me one two days before the wedding—charcoal gray, tailored to actually fit my frame instead of hanging off me like a kid playing dress-up. The fabric is soft, expensive. Wool that doesn't scratch. The kind of thing I'd never buy for myself. She tears up when I try it on. Her hand covers her mouth, and I watch her eyes go glassy in the dressing room mirror.
"You look so handsome," she says, adjusting my collar. Her fingers are gentle, smoothing down the lapels, fixing the way the jacket sits on my shoulders.
I look like an imposter.
But I smile and let her fuss, standing still while she circles me like a bird checking her nest, because this is her day. Her happiness. And if wearing an uncomfortable suit and pretending I belong in Richard Graves's world makes her happy, I'll do it.
The wedding is small. Intimate, the invitation said. Just family and close friends.
I am neither.
The venue is some historic mansion overlooking the water, all sweeping lawns and white columns and the kind of elegance that makes me want to hide. The grass is so green itlooks fake. The columns are so white they hurt to look at in the afternoon sun. Margot looks beautiful in her dress—simple, cream-colored, nothing flashy. It flows when she walks, catches the light, makes her look like she's glowing from the inside out. She doesn't need flashy. She glows.
Richard looks at her like she hung the moon.
I stand off to the side during the ceremony, watching. My hands are clasped in front of me, fingers twisted together hard enough that my knuckles ache. Margot asked me to walk her down the aisle, but I said no. Too much attention. Too many eyes.
Too much risk.
The suppressants are working. I took one this morning, right on schedule. Dry-swallowed it in the hotel bathroom while Margot knocked and asked if I was ready. But I still feel exposed. Like everyone here can see through my skin to what I'm hiding underneath. Like they can smell it on me even though I know they can't. They're all betas. Normal people. Safe people.
The ceremony is short. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Vows exchanged. Rings slipped on. A kiss that makes the small crowd applaud. I don't cry.
The reception is worse.
I've been to exactly two weddings in my life, and both were quiet courthouse affairs for foster parents I barely knew. Nothing like this.
The reception hall is all floor-to-ceiling windows and crystal chandeliers, overlooking the water as the sun sets. Gold and pink and orange bleeding across the sky, reflecting off the water in rippling columns of light. There are maybe forty people here—small by rich people standards, I guess—but it feels like hundreds. Everyone's dressed like they walked off a magazine cover. Designer labels. Expensive jewelry.
