I hit the floor and pulled air in, each breath a raw scrape.
My head throbbed.
I couldn’t feel my fingers.
“Get the door,” he said, and walked into the hallway.
I fumbled upright. Crossed the room and opened the door.
“Ms. Yarwood?” The man’s eyes went to my throat and stayed there.
“Sorry,” I said. “Chopping onions.” I wasn’t sure if that whole tear thing was true but that was what they said on television.
He handed me an ivory envelope. The thick cotton stock the same weight, the same texture as the invitations I’d ordered for my own wedding, years ago, before Pierce decided I wasn’t worth the trouble of keeping.
The Worthington crest was embossed in gold on the seal.
He left. I stood in the doorway and stared at it.
Jameson yanked me back inside and ripped the envelope from my hand.
“You are invited to the engagement party of Mr. Pierce Worthington and Ms. Madison Hastings,” he read. His voice was very quiet. It was terrifying. “Black tie. Dinner at seven.”
He crumpled the invitation in his fist and raised it to my face. “What the fuck is this?”
If Pierce were in a coma, there would be no engagement party. The invitation meant one of two things: either it had been sent before the poison took effect, or Pierce Worthington was very much awake.
“The invitations must have gone out before I poisoned him. Let me call the house.”
My hands shook as I dialed.
“Worthington Residence.”
“Tompkins, darling. There must be a mistake. There can’t really be an engagement party tomorrow.”
A pause. A sigh.
“There is no mistake, madam. Will you be bringing a plus one?”
I hung up.
Jameson stood across the room, teeth bared, skin mottled.
Eleven Waterford glasses left on my shelf.
My mother’s hands. And all the things I could not take back.
There was nowhere to run.
CHAPTER 57
MADISON
They had sent me up alone with it.
The dress was on a padded hanger inside a garment bag that smelled of cedar and something floral, lavender, maybe. I hung it on the back of the wardrobe door and stood in front of it for a long time before I touched it.
Downstairs, an orchestra was warming up. The resonant sounds of a bow being dragged across slightly off-key strings floated up the stairs, and beneath that, the first low rumble of conversation as guests began to arrive.
