The organ music started. It was a low rumble that Blaire felt in the soles of her feet.
Her body was vibrating. Not shivering-vibrating. Like a plucked guitar string that wouldn't stop humming.
They were standing in the vestibule. The heavy double doors to the nave were still closed. Just Blaire, Declan, and Barrett.
Declan looked down at her. He frowned.
Without asking, he reached out and grabbed the edge of her veil. He adjusted it, his knuckles grazing her bare shoulder. His touch was rough, efficient. Possessive.
Blaire flinched.
"Don't touch me," she hissed under her breath. "Just because I agreed to this doesn't mean you own me. Don't think you can swallow my company just because you put a ring on my finger."
Declan let out a short, dry laugh.
"You have no leverage, Blaire," he said softly. "You have nothing. Even the dignity you're clinging to right now? I'm the one giving it to you."
Blaire wanted to slap him. Her palm itched with the need to wipe that arrogant look off his face.
"Smile," Barrett whispered frantically from her other side. "Blaire, please. For the cameras."
She looked at her brother. He looked pathetic. He was willing to sell her to the devil to keep the lights on.
A sudden pressure on her jaw forced her head up.
Declan's fingers were digging into her skin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were an impossible shade of blue. Dark ocean water. Cold. Deep. Dangerous.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "If you embarrass me out there... if you trip, if you cry, if you look like a victim... you will regret it. Do you understand?"
It was a threat. Plain and simple.
Something hot flared in her chest. Anger. It was better than fear.
She jerked her chin out of his grip.
"I don't trip," she spat. "If you play your part, I'll play mine. I'll be the perfect Mrs. Singleton. Just don't expect me to like it."
The doors groaned open.
Light hit them. A wall of it.
Flashbulbs popped like gunfire. Pop-pop-pop-pop.
Hundreds of faces turned toward them in the pews. A sea of strangers.
Then, the ripple started.
It began in the front row and washed backward. Eyes widened. Mouths dropped. Whispers erupted like a swarm of angry bees.
That's not Jeffery.
Is that Declan?
What happened?
The noise was deafening.
Blaire stepped forward. Or she tried to. Her legs felt like jelly.
Declan's arm was a steel bar under her hand. He didn't wait for her. He moved.
He practically dragged her the first three steps until her feet remembered how to walk.
"Chin up," he muttered, staring straight ahead. "Walk like you own the place."
Blaire forced her spine straight. She thought of Jeffery running away. She thought of him in Paris with some nameless woman.
I hate you, she thought, matching her steps to the organ music. I hate you, Jeffery.
The hate was fuel. It burned hot and clean.
They passed the pews. She saw the women. The socialites who usually looked at her with envy were now looking at Declan. They looked hungry. They looked terrified.
Jeffery was a boy. Declan was a man. A dangerous, wealthy, powerful man.
Blaire realized with a jolt that she had just traded a Honda for a Ferrari. A Ferrari with no brakes that might kill her, but a Ferrari nonetheless.
They reached the altar.
Usually, the groom waits. Usually, the father hands the bride over.
Declan didn't wait. He reached out and took her hand from Barrett before they even stopped moving. He pulled her up the last step, claiming her.
The Bishop looked confused. He blinked, looking from Declan to Harrison in the front row.
Harrison gave a sharp nod.
The Bishop cleared his throat. He looked nervous. Good.
"Dearly beloved," he began, his voice shaky. He skipped the preamble. He skipped the anecdotes about how the couple met. He went straight to the vows.
Smart man.
"Do you, Declan Singleton, take this woman..."
"I do," Declan said.
His voice boomed through the microphone. It was deep, resonant, and absolutely devoid of hesitation. He stared right at her when he said it. It didn't sound like a vow. It sounded like a sentencing.
"And do you, Blaire English..."
Her throat was sandpaper. The silence stretched. One second. Two.
Declan's grip on her hand tightened. A warning.
"I do," she rasped.
The best man-Declan's CFO, a man she didn't know-stepped forward with a ring.
Blaire looked down.
It wasn't the ring Jeffery had bought. That was a tasteful, three-carat oval cut.
This was... ancient.
It was a massive emerald-cut diamond, flanked by sapphires, set in heavy platinum. It looked like something a queen would wear to an execution.
Declan took her left hand. He slid the ring onto her finger.
It slid over her knuckle. Past the joint. And settled at the base.
It fit perfectly.
Blaire froze. She looked up at him, confusion warring with panic.
How?
How did he have a ring? How did he know her size? This wasn't a temporary ring. This was sized for her.
"Declan," she started to whisper.
He didn't let her speak. He grabbed both of her hands, pulling her a step closer, invading her personal space.
The Bishop closed his book. He looked relieved it was over.
"By the power vested in me... I now pronounce you husband and wife."
He paused.
"You may kiss the bride."
Blaire's stomach dropped to her toes.
She looked at Declan's mouth. It was a hard line.
She expected a peck on the cheek. A polite, dry press of lips for the cameras.
Then she saw his eyes.
There was a flash of something in them. Something feral.
He didn't lean in gently. He lunged.
