The red carpet was a gauntlet of blinding lights and shouting voices.
"Franco! Franco! Over here!"
"Kalea! Is it true the wedding date is set?"
"Who are you wearing?"
Franco moved with the ease of a man born to be worshipped. He waved, he smiled, he guided Kalea with a hand on the small of her back. To the cameras, it looked like a protective embrace. To Kalea, it felt like a branding iron.
"Smile," he hissed through his teeth, his lips barely moving. "Show some teeth."
Kalea forced the corners of her mouth up. Her facial muscles trembled with the effort. She felt like a marionette with tangled strings.
"We are very excited," Franco told a reporter from Page Six, stopping briefly. "We're just finalizing the details. It's going to be the event of the season."
His eyes weren't on the reporter. They were scanning the entrance hall of the estate.
Kalea followed his gaze.
Standing near a massive floral arrangement of white hydrangeas was Jennie Spence.
She was wearing a dress that was almost identical in color to Kalea's-a shimmering champagne silk that clung to every curve. But where Kalea's was high-necked and modest, Jennie's was slashed to the hip and plunged deep in the front. It was a deliberate, calculated insult. In high society, showing up in the same color palette as the guest of honor's sister-the fiancée-was an act of war.
Kalea stumbled. Her heel caught on the plush carpet.
Franco's hand tightened on her waist, his fingers digging into her flesh painfully. He hauled her upright effortlessly.
"Clumsy," he muttered in her ear. "Pull it together."
They moved past the press line and into the grand foyer. The moment they were out of direct sight of the cameras, Kalea pulled away. She jerked her arm from his grip and walked briskly toward a large marble pillar that offered a sliver of privacy.
Franco sighed, annoyed, and followed her. He smoothed the lapel of his suit, checking for wrinkles.
"What is wrong with you?" he asked.
Kalea turned on him. Her chest was heaving. "Send her home."
Franco blinked, feigning ignorance. "Who?"
"Jennie. Send her home. Now." Kalea's voice shook, not with tears, but with a rage so hot it felt cold. "Or I leave. Right now. And you can explain to your uncle why the merger asset just walked out the door."
Franco stared at her. Then, a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He took a step closer, looming over her. He used his height to intimidate, boxing her in against the cold stone pillar.
"You aren't going anywhere, Kalea," he said softly. "You think you have leverage? Your family's stock is tanking. This marriage is the only thing keeping the Alexander Group from being dissolved and sold for parts. You need me. Your father needs me."
He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. "I love Jennie. She understands me. She makes me feel alive. You? You're a duty. So be a good little wife and tolerate it. Don't make me embarrass you."
He pulled back, looking at her with a mixture of pity and disgust. "Grow up, Kalea."
He turned on his heel and walked away. He walked straight toward the champagne dress. Straight toward Jennie.
Kalea stood frozen against the pillar. The cold of the stone seeped through the thin fabric of her dress, chilling her spine.
I love Jennie.
He had said it. Out loud. To her face.
She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. She opened her message thread with Franco. It was a graveyard of unrequited affection. Texts from her saying "Have a safe flight", "Good luck with the meeting", "I miss you". Most were unanswered.
She typed two digits.
99
She hit send.
Across the room, she saw Franco pause. He pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and frowned. He looked around, annoyed, then shoved the phone back in his pocket without replying.
Kalea watched the "Read" receipt appear.
It wasn't a plea. It was a countdown. A metric for her own sanity. When it hit zero, she would be gone. One way or another.
A waiter passed by with a silver tray. Kalea reached out and grabbed a flute of champagne. The doctor had been explicitly clear: No alcohol with your medication. It could cause respiratory depression.
Kalea didn't care. She drained the glass in one long swallow. The alcohol hit her empty, ravaged stomach like a shard of glass. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she gripped the stem of the flute, her knuckles white, forcing the world to stay upright. The pain was a welcome distraction, a sharp, physical anchor in a sea of emotional torment. It hurt, and the pain was grounding.
She looked up. On the grand staircase, Haleigh was descending, arm in arm with Eleanor. They looked like royalty. Haleigh was beaming, soaking in the applause. The perfect family.
And moving through the crowd, holding a glass of wine, Jennie Spence was walking straight toward Kalea. Her hips swayed. There was a smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes.
Kalea gripped the empty champagne flute until she felt the fragile glass groan under the pressure.
