Olivia had practiced this walk.
In her bedroom, in heels, with a sheet draped over her shoulders to simulate the train.
She’d timed it.
Twelve seconds from the doors to the altar.
Slow enough to be dramatic, fast enough that people didn’t get bored.
Her father smelled like aftershave and fear.
His arm was stiff beneath her hand.
“He’ll warm up,” he whispered.
“Once he sees you.”
Olivia smiled.
She wasn’t worried.
Lucian Barone was a statue.
Everyone knew that.
Statues didn’t smile at altars; they waited for you to chip away at them.
She was good at chipping.
The music started and she stepped forward.
The cameras flashed.
She kept her chin up, her smile calibrated to the exact width that made her cheekbones pop.
She’d watched the footage from her debutante ball.
She knew her angles.
Lucian stood at the end of the aisle.
He didn’t move.
His hands were at his sides, one gloved, one not.
His face was the same face she’d seen in magazines…handsome in a way that felt like a threat.
She reached him.
“Lucian,” she said softly
He looked at her.
His eyes were gray, the color of a sky before it decided to storm.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The room laughed.
Someone coughed.
Olivia’s smile didn’t break.
“It’s me.”
“I asked who you are.”
The laughter stopped.
Olivia felt her father’s hand tighten on hers.
“Lucian,” she said again, lower.
“Your bride.”
Lucian looked away from her.
His gaze moved across the room, past the flowers, past the reporters, past the hundreds of people who had flown in for this.
It stopped.
Aria was standing by the emergency exit, holding a tray of empty champagne flutes someone had handed her.
She was wearing a black dress that had faded to dark gray at the seams.
Her hair was coming loose from its clip.
She looked like a waiter who’d gotten lost.
“Come here,” Lucian said.
Aria didn’t move.
The room turned.
All at once, like a flock of birds changing direction.
Aria felt the weight of it, two hundred people looking at the wrong thing.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” she said.
Her voice was steady, which surprised her.
“I don’t know you.”
Lucian stared at her.
Not angry.
Studying.
Like she was a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
Richard stepped forward, laughing that laugh he used with investors.
“Mr.
Barone, there’s clearly been some confusion.
This is Olivia.
The agreement….”
“Was not with Olivia Monroe,” Lucian said.
Richard’s laugh died.
“Then who?”
Lucian didn’t look away from Aria.
“Her.”
The word hung in the air.
Lucian gave his lawyer a glance, He stepped forward, opened his briefcase and took out an envelope which he stretched forward to Richard.
Richard reached for the lawyer’s envelope with hands that shook slightly.
He read it twice.
The paper made a sound when his grip tightened.
Olivia looked at her father.
“Tell me this isn’t real.”
Richard said nothing.
Olivia turned to Aria.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew, and you let me….” Olivia’s voice broke upward, into a register she’d used as a child.
“You think this changes anything?
You think you can just..”
“Enough.” Lucian didn’t raise his voice, but the room went quiet anyway.
He gestured to the security by the doors.
“Remove her.”
The guards moved.
Olivia backed away, her heel catching on the carpet.
“No,” she said.
“No, I’m not..” She looked at Aria, and her face twisted into something raw and ancient.
“This isn’t over.”
The doors closed.
The sound was final.
Richard turned to Aria.
His jaw worked.
“Come here.”
“Father…”
“Now.”
He took her wrist.
His fingers dug in just hard enough to bruise, steering her away from the cameras.
“You will fix this.”
“I didn’t…”
“You heard him.
The agreement names you.”
Aria pulled her arm back.
It took more force than she’d expected.
“I said no.”
Richard’s face darkened.
“You don’t get to say no.
Not to this.”
“I do,” Aria said.
“I’m not Olivia.
You can’t just…”
“Is there a problem?” Lucian was beside them now.
Close enough that Aria could smell his cologne, something sharp and cold, like pine and cedar.
Richard dropped her wrist.
“She’s overwhelmed.
This is a shock.”
Lucian looked at Aria.
“You don’t want this.”
It wasn’t a question.
She shook her head.
“Choose someone else,” she said.
“Choose anyone.
I don’t know you.
I don’t want to know you.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph.
He held it between two fingers, like a card he was about to play.
Aria looked.
She froze.
She knew the room in the photograph.
The blue wallpaper with the stain near the lamp.
The bed with the white duvet she’d gripped with both hands.
The glass on the carpet, half-empty, something dissolving at the bottom.
She remembered the headache.
The way her legs hadn’t worked right.
The door opening, and a man’s silhouette against the hallway light.
Her mouth went dry.
“So it was you,” she said.