St. Patrick's Cathedral was cold, vast, and filled with people who hated Alys.
She walked down the aisle alone. The organ music was a funeral dirge. The pews were packed with New York's elite, whispering behind their programs.
"That's the crazy sister."
"I heard she tried to kill herself yesterday."
"Look at the dress. It's wearing her."
Alys kept her head down. At the altar, there was no groom. Just a lawyer in a grey suit, checking his watch.
Proxy marriage.
Gustaf Greer couldn't be bothered to show up for his own acquisition. Elena had explained he was still in 'fragile recovery' and his doctors forbade travel. A perfect excuse.
Brisa, Alys's perfect sister, stood in the front row as the maid of honor. She wore white. Of course she did. As Alys passed her, Brisa stuck her foot out, the heel of her Louboutin catching the lace of Alys's hem.
Alys felt the tug. She could have stepped over it.
Instead, she stopped. She turned to look at Brisa, widening her eyes, trembling like a frightened deer.
The cameras flashed. Pop. Pop. Pop.
They caught the image perfectly: The cruel, beautiful sister tripping the fragile, mute bride.
Brisa's smile faltered. She pulled her foot back, hissing, "Move, you mute bitch."
Alys stumbled forward, letting a single tear roll down her cheek. The crowd murmured. The narrative shifted. Alys wasn't the crazy one anymore. She was the martyr.
The lawyer placed a ring on Alys's finger. It was too big. It slid around her knuckle, cold and loose.
"I do," the lawyer said for Gustaf.
Alys nodded.
It was done. She was property of the Greer estate.
The car ride was silent. The windows were tinted so dark the city looked like a bruise.
They arrived at Greer Manor at dusk. It was a fortress of grey stone and iron gates, perched on a hill overlooking the Hudson.
"Your rooms are in the East Wing," the butler, Arthur, said. He didn't look Alys in the eye. "Mr. Greer is not to be disturbed."
They put her in a guest room. It smelled of lemon polish and disuse.
Alys waited until the house slept.
At 2:00 AM, she stripped off the wedding dress. Underneath, she wore black leggings and a dark shirt she'd stolen from the laundry cart.
She opened the window. The ledge was narrow, but wide enough. She moved like a shadow, testing for sensors.
She needed to know the layout. She needed to know where the servers were.
Alys crept along the roofline toward the main tower. A light was on in the study.
She pressed herself against the stone, peering through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains.
Gustaf Greer was there.
He was sitting in a wheelchair behind a massive mahogany desk. He looked pale, weak. He wheeled himself toward the bookshelf.
Then, he stopped.
He looked at the door. He waited.
And then he stood up.
He didn't struggle. He didn't wobble. He stood with the grace of a predator. He walked to the window, his stride long and powerful.
Alys's breath hitched.
He threw the window open.
Alys dove into the ivy, pressing her face into the dirt, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Is someone there?" his voice was deep, rough gravel.
A stray cat hissed from the bushes below Alys.
Gustaf huffed. He leaned out, his hands gripping the sill. Alys saw the muscles in his forearms flex. Steel cords.
He wasn't a cripple. He was a liar. Just like her.
He closed the window.
Alys lay in the dirt for a long time, smiling.
