The partition between the front and back seats of the Maybach rose with a soft whir.
They were sealed in.
The leather seats were cool, but Celeste felt feverish.
Basile opened a small refrigerator built into the console.
He pulled out a glass bottle of Evian water.
He unscrewed the cap and handed it to her.
"Drink," he ordered. "Your adrenaline is crashing."
Celeste took the bottle.
Her hands were shaking again.
She took a sip. The cold water shocked her system.
She looked at him.
He was reading something on a tablet, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he just got married to a woman he supposedly hated.
"Who brought me to the hotel last night?" she asked.
The question had been gnawing at her.
Basile didn't look up.
He tapped the screen of the tablet and turned it toward her.
It was a video feed.
Grainy, black and white security footage.
Celeste watched as a car pulled up to the service entrance of the Plaza.
Two men got out.
They opened the back door and dragged a limp body out.
Her body.
Her head lolled to the side.
She recognized one of the men.
It was the Franco family driver.
Daniela's driver.
"They tipped off the press," Basile said calmly. "There were six photographers waiting in the lobby. If you had run out of that room this morning like a scared little girl, your face would be on every tabloid cover by noon."
Celeste gripped the water bottle until her knuckles turned white.
"She wanted to destroy me," she whispered.
"Completely," Basile agreed.
He finally looked at her.
"And if I had touched you last night," he added, his voice low, "you would have been ruined. Adultery before the vows. No prenup protection."
Celeste stared at him.
He had saved her.
By doing nothing, he had saved her.
"Why didn't you?" she asked. "Why didn't you take advantage? You hate my father."
Basile took the tablet back.
He shut off the screen.
"I have standards," he said dismissively. "I don't sleep with unconscious women."
"Besides," she challenged, remembering his earlier words, "you have a thing about germs."
"That too," he said, his expression unreadable.
He was lying again.
She could feel it.
"What happens if my father tries to stop me?" she asked. "He has a temper."
Basile reached across the console.
His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist.
Right over a faint, white scar she had gotten when she was sixteen.
When Elmore had pushed her through a glass door.
Celeste flinched, pulling her hand back.
Basile's eyes narrowed on the scar.
"You are a Delgado now," he said.
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
"If he touches you, he loses a hand."
The car slowed down.
Through the tinted windows, Celeste could see the spire of the church.
A crowd of reporters swarmed the steps like ants.
Celeste took a deep breath.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of oversized black sunglasses.
She put them on.
They hid the fear in her eyes.
They hid the moisture gathering in the corners.
Basile watched her transform.
He saw her spine straighten.
He saw her jaw set.
He nodded, a small gesture of approval.
The car stopped.
The door handle clicked.
Basile got out first.
The flashbulbs erupted like a lightning storm.
He buttoned his jacket.
He turned back to the car.
He extended his hand to her.
Celeste looked at his open palm.
It was an invitation to war.
She placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, tight and possessive.
She stepped out into the blinding light.
