But what if the news is bad?
What if Father took a turn? What if he's worse? What if—
I set the phone down before I can finish the thought.
Not now. I can't fall apart now. Not when I'm expected downstairs in this dress, with this face, playing this role.
Music starts. Something classical, elegant, piped through speakers I can't see.
I close my eyes. Breathe slowly through my nose the way William taught me in that hallway after Father was shot. In. Out. In. Out.
But it doesn't help.
Nothing helps except the cataloging. The details. The things I can control when everything else is chaos.
The dress: midnight blue, silk, custom-made by a designer whose name I can't pronounce. The shoes: silver heels, three inches, uncomfortable but beautiful. The jewelry: diamond earrings, diamond pins, a single sapphire pendant at my throat that William sent to my room this morning. No note. Just the pendant in a black velvet box.
The room: cream walls, mahogany furniture, Persian rug in shades of burgundy and gold. The window: ten feet tall, thick glass, heavy curtains I could close if I wanted darkness. The door: solid oak, unlocked, but I might as well be in a prison for all the freedom I have.
The sounds outside: more cars arriving, more voices, music swelling, someone laughing too loud. The clink of glasses. The murmur of conversation. A woman's voice rising above the rest, bright and false.
They're celebrating.
While my father lies dying.
The rage comes back, hot and familiar. I welcome it. Rage is better than grief. Better than fear. Better than the helplessness that threatens to swallow me whole.
Minutes tick by. Then more minutes. The party grows louder, the music swelling, voices rising in what sounds like another toast.
Where is William?
He should have come for me by now. Should have escorted me downstairs to stand beside him, to play the role of happy bride-to-be in front of the families. That's how these things work. The groom comes for the bride. They descend together.
But the minutes keep passing, and William doesn't come.
I pace the room again, my heels sinking into the Persian rug with each step. The silk dress swishes around my legs, the sound mixing with the distant music. My impatience builds with each circuit. Ten steps to the window. Ten steps back. Over and over.
What is taking so long?
The knock at the door is sharp. Urgent.
Finally.
I turn, expecting to see William, but when the door opens, two men in dark suits step inside. Security. Their faces are tight, professional, but I catch something in their eyes. Something that makes my stomach drop.
"Miss O'Rourke." The first one speaks, his voice controlled but rushed. "We need you to come with us. Now."
"What?" I take a step back. "Where's William? He's supposed to—"
"There's no time to explain." The second guard moves toward me. "Please, Miss O'Rourke. We need to move you immediately."
"Move me where? The party—"
"Now." The first guard's hand is already on my elbow. "Miss O'Rourke, please."
Every instinct screams that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
But what choice do I have?
