37. Harmony
Harmony
The dress fits like a lie.
Soft. White. Laced in threads shimmering like innocence—but every thread feels like a noose around my ribs.
I stare at myself in the mirror, watching a stranger smooth down the bodice.
She has my face. My eyes. But none of my fire.
Her hair’s curled just the way Damien likes it—loose waves, pinned behind one ear, soft enough to touch but not pull.
Her makeup is perfect. Lips tinted berry-red.
Eyes ringed in gold shadow. No bruises. No cracks. No blood.
Just polish.
Just obedience.
The reflection smiles.
I don’t.
Because what can I do?
Reese is stationed outside the door.
I reach for the clutch on the vanity.
The weight of it is deceptive—small, dainty. Inside: four carefully labeled bombs and the end of someone’s world.
I breathe in.
Th en out.
The perfume on my wrist smells like lavender and smoke. Damien picked it. Said it reminded him of when I was his.
Was.
I sit on the edge of the bed, gripping the clutch with both hands. My thighs still ache from last night. My lips are cracked. My heart feels like it’s been hollowed out with a spoon.
But I smile anyway.
Because today, I play the part.
Today, I am lovely. Loyal. Useful.
Today, I am a weapon in white.
I rise.
The mirror doesn’t shatter.
But God, I wish it would.
* * *
The venue looks like something out of a dream.
Soft lights dangle from the treetops like stars fallen low enough to touch. White roses wrap around the arbor in delicate spirals. The breeze smells like champagne and lilacs.
And blood.
Even if no one else can smell it… I can.
The clutch digs into my fingers as I step through the gate.
I’m wearing cream. Not white. Not blue. Somewhere in between—like a ghost of a bride who never made it to the altar. My heels crunch against the gravel path as I move toward the crowd.
I don’t see Damien.
Not yet.
But I know he’s watching.
Astra sees me first.
Sh e’s dressed in satin and rage—dark lipstick, sharp cheekbones, hair curled like rebellion. Her eyes widen when they lock on mine. She looks like the perfect bride.
She whispers something to Evelyn, who turns so fast I see the shimmer of panic before she covers it with a smile.
“Harmony?” Evelyn steps forward, voice uncertain. “You… you came?”
I nod, throat tight. “Would’ve been rude not to. I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome. The ceremony was beautiful.”
Astra crosses her arms. “That’s never stopped you before.”
I ignore the jab. I deserve it.
“I just wanted to say congratulations,” I offer. “Lucien and Astra… it’s—”
I pause.
I almost say beautiful.
I almost say safe.
But I settle on, “It’s good to see something still standing.”
Evelyn softens. Astra doesn’t.
“I need to freshen up,” I add quickly, before they can pull me in deeper. “Long drive.”
“Of course.” Evelyn gestures toward the guesthouse. “The bathrooms are just past the kitchen, second door on the left.”
I nod, stepping past them like a woman walking through smoke. My heart’s beating too fast. My palms are damp. The clutch feels heavier with every step.
I slip through the hallway—no one around. The music fades behind me, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You” by Frankie Valli plays.
The hum of hidden speakers surrounds me, and the distant pop of champagne echoes.
Now.
I enter the service kitchen first. Cold. Stainless steel counters.
I move to the fire extinguisher panel. The latch sticks, but I force it open.
Device one. Click.
I move fast now. Focused.
Basement. I slide down the narrow stairwell, heart in my throat. The breaker box is old, rusted. I pop it open and press the second device into the corner.
Device two. Done.
Back upstairs.
Outside.
The arbor looms like a throne waiting for its queen. White fabric drapes the beams, soft enough to hide a war. I slip my hand beneath the edge, press the device into the far-right beam.
Three.
My hands are shaking.
Back inside. Through the crowd. No one notices. No one cares.
I reach the last location—beneath the floral cascade in the main hall. Guests are gathering nearby, eyes on each other. Never on me.
I duck low, pretending to fix a strap on my heel. My fingers find the crevice beneath the arrangement.
Four.
All done.
The clutch is empty now.
My body isn’t.
It’s full of static. Of countdowns. Of ghosts whispering, you’re still not free.
I straighten slowly. My smile clicks into place.
And I head back toward the party.
To wait.
To burn.
To end him.
* * *
I shouldn’t be doing this.
The thought runs laps in my head like a warning siren, louder than the music, louder than the laughter spilling out from the dance floor.
But I move anyway.
Past tables of champagne flutes and hand-rolled cigars. Past smiling faces and soft violin strings.
The weight of what I’ve done is buried deep in the hollow of my spine.
Four bombs. Four precise detonations. All it would take is one command from Damien—one twitch of his finger—and this whole dream would collapse in on itself.
And the blood would be on my hands.
Unless I do something.
Unless I choose something else.
I spot Dante near the edge of the tent, half in shadow, eyes scanning the crowd like he already knows something’s wrong. He doesn’t look relaxed. He never does. But tonight, he looks wired—coiled like a trap waiting to be sprung.
I slip behind him, my fingers grazing the edge of his coat.
“Don’t turn around,” I whisper.
He stiffens. “Harmony.”
“I don’t have time to explain.”
“Then make time.”
“There are devices—four of them. Hidden around the property.”
He turns slightly, enough to catch my expression from the corner of his eye.
“Bombs?” he asks quietly.
I nod once.
“Where?”
“Under the arbor. Kitchen extinguisher panel. Basement breaker box. And… the floral cascade in the main hall.”
He exhales through his nose. No panic. No rage. Just motion. Just calculating.
“When?” he asks.
“Soon. He’s waiting for something. I don’t know what.”
Dante shifts his body enough to block me from view as guests pass by.
“I can get Astra and Evelyn out,” he says under his breath. “Lucien, too.”
“You have to hurry.”
“Why tell me?” he asks.
I stare straight ahead. “Because I’m not his anymore.”
A beat of silence.
“Will he know it was you?”
I nod.
And for the first time, I say it out loud:
“I don’t care.”
Dante nods once. Tight. Final.
“Go back inside. Pretend nothing happened.”
I take one step away—then stop.
“Dante?”
His jaw flexes.
“If I don’t survive this,” I whisper, “tell Lucien not to blame anyone, except Damien.”
“Harmony—” he says.
“Be careful.”
I nod, heading out to a side entrance that wasn’t on Damien’s master blueprint. I need to escape.
Before the clock runs out.