Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Vivianne: The Rehearsal Dinner
The napkin debate has been going on for twenty minutes.
Twenty. Minutes.
I stare at the fabric swatches spread across Father's desk—ivory, cream, pearl, eggshell—all variations of the same colorless nothing. Mrs. Holloway hovers nearby, wringing her hands, waiting for a decision I don't care to make.
"The ivory is too yellow." Prescott leans over my shoulder, his cologne coating the back of my throat. "Pearl is better. More elegant."
Elegant. Everything must be elegant. Perfect. Befitting the union of two powerful families.
I want to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
"Fine." The word comes out flat. Dead. "Pearl."
Mrs. Holloway scurries away, relieved to escape. I don't blame her.
The days blur together now. Tastings where I push food around plates. Fittings where seamstresses pin and tuck fabric I never chose. Endless conversations about flowers and fonts and whether the string quartet knows our first dance song.
Our. As if I had any say in it. As if this wedding is something we're building together instead of a cage being constructed around me, one pearl napkin at a time.
Through it all, I escape to the gardens whenever possible. Searching for bumblebees. For any sign that Paul's message was real. That help is coming.
But the flowers remain stubbornly still. Only regular honeybees going about their business, oblivious to my desperation.
Days before the wedding, I'm trapped in Father's study again. The air is thick with cigar smoke and expensive whiskey. The smell makes my stomach turn.
"The rehearsal dinner is in three days." Father doesn't look up from his papers. His pen scratches across documents—contracts, probably. Or prenuptials. Legal shackles to match the emotional ones. "I expect you to be on your best behavior. No more moping around like you're attending a funeral."
The bitter laugh claws up my throat. I swallow it back.
A funeral would be preferable.
"And for God's sake, eat something." Prescott eyes me from his perch against the desk. His gaze travels over me—assessing, cataloging, finding me wanting. "That dress cost a fortune. I won't have you looking like a skeleton walking down the aisle."
I wrap my arms around myself. The gesture is automatic. Defensive. I've lost weight—the stress and constant nausea have stripped flesh from bones I didn't know I could spare.
But hearing him say it. Reducing me to an ornament that's not polished enough for display.
Something hot and sharp lodges under my ribs.
"I'll try." I force the words out. Keep my eyes down.
"You'll do more than try." Father's voice cracks like a whip. "This union is too important to be jeopardized by your childish behavior."
The word detonates something inside me.
"Childish?" My head snaps up. "Is it childish to want some say in my own life? To not want to be sold off like—"
The room goes silent. That terrible, suffocating silence that means I've crossed a line.
Father rises slowly from his chair. His face darkens—first red, then purple, like a storm gathering. "How dare you."
"You're embarrassing yourself." Prescott moves faster than I can react. His hand clamps around my upper arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my elbow. Pain blooms, sharp and immediate.
I try to pull away. "Let go—"
He shoves. Hard.
I stumble backward, catching myself on the bookshelf edge. Pain radiates from my arm where his fingers branded me. My elbow hits wood, sending another shock of pain up to my shoulder.
Prescott stands there, straightening his cuffs. Calm. Composed. Like he didn't just put his hands on me.
Father has already returned to his papers. Dismissing me. Dismissing what just happened.
I flee.
My feet carry me through corridors, past staff who won't meet my eyes, out into the gardens where the sunset bleeds orange and red across the sky like a wound.
I collapse onto a stone bench. The marble is cold through my thin dress, but I barely feel it. Everything is numb except my arm, which throbs with each heartbeat.
The tears come finally. Hot. Angry. Useless.
"Please." I whisper to the empty air. To Paul. To whoever might be listening. "If you can hear me... I can't do this anymore."
But only the wind answers. Rustling through leaves. Carrying away my words like they never existed.
No bumblebees appear. No magical messages.
Just silence.
The days crawl by. Each one heavier than the last.
Father makes it clear—crystal clear—that any further "outbursts" will not be tolerated. He doesn't specify what that means. Doesn't need to. The threat hangs in the air like smoke.
Prescott's touches linger longer now. His grip tighter. Fingers pressing into my waist, my shoulder, my wrist. Not quite hard enough to bruise where people can see. But the message is unmistakable.
You're mine. Or you will be soon enough.
The night before the rehearsal dinner, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Sleep is impossible. My mind races with thoughts of escape that go nowhere. Dead ends and locked doors and guards who watch my every move.
What if I tried again? How far could I get?
And what happens when they catch me?
Tap.
I freeze. Hold my breath. Wait.
Tap tap.
It's coming from the window.
My pulse slams against my ribs as I slip out of bed. The floor is cold under my bare feet. Each step feels loud enough to wake the house.
I ease aside the curtain.
Bumblebees hover outside the glass. Their bodies glow faintly in the moonlight—impossible, beautiful, real.
They move, forming letters against the dark.
Wedding. Be ready.
My hands shake as I unlatch the window. Cool night air rushes in, carrying the scent of roses, earth, and possibility.
"How?" The whisper barely makes it past my lips. "What do I need to—"
But they're already dispersing. Melting into the darkness like they were never there.
I close the window. Lean my forehead against the cool glass.
They're coming. Paul is coming.
For the first time in months, hope flickers in my chest. Small. Fragile. But alive.
I don't sleep. Can't. My mind spins with possibilities, fears, and desperate plans.
Dawn breaks slowly. The sky shifts from black to gray to pale gold. I watch it all from my window, memorizing the colors in case I never see them again.
Because this is it. Today is the rehearsal dinner.
Tomorrow is my wedding day.
The day Paul will come for me. Or the day I lose everything.
The house erupts into chaos before I've finished my first cup of coffee. Hair stylists. Makeup artists. The seamstress with last-minute adjustments to the dress I didn't choose.
They pull and pin and paint. Transform me into someone I don't recognize. A bride. A doll. A prize to be displayed.
Through it all, I'm hyperaware. Watching. Listening. Searching for any sign, any clue of what's to come.
As evening approaches, luxury cars begin arriving. The circular drive fills with Mercedes, Bentleys, and sleek black town cars. Guests emerge in designer clothes and too much jewelry, laughing, air-kissing, pretending we're all here for something joyful.
I stand at the top of the grand staircase. Prescott's arm wraps around my waist—possessive, proprietary. His fingers dig into my hip through the silk of my dress.
"You look beautiful, darling." His breath is hot against my ear. Too close. Always too close. "Keep this up, and we might just make it through without incident."
I suppress a shudder. Force my mouth into a smile as the first guests reach us.
"Mrs. Whitmore, how lovely to see you." I shake hands. Smile. Lie. "Yes, we're so excited. Thank you for coming."
"Mr. Castellano, what a pleasure." Another handshake. Another empty pleasantry. "Of course. We're thrilled you could make it."
The faces blur together. Names I'll never remember attached to people I'll never see again. They all say the same things. Offer the same congratulations. Ask the same questions about flowers, venues, and honeymoon destinations.
And I smile. And nod. And die a little more with each guest.
The last guest finally passes through. My cheeks ache from smiling. My feet throb in heels too high for standing this long.
Then I hear it. Faint but unmistakable.
Buzzing.
My pulse leaps. I scan the room, trying not to be obvious. There—near a vase of white roses on the hall table. A single bumblebee hovers, impossibly still.
The estate has transformed. The marble floors gleam under chandeliers that cast diamond patterns across every surface. Guests drift through the space like colorful birds—silk rustling, jewelry glinting, champagne glasses catching light.
Servers weave through the crowd. Crisp white shirts. Black waistcoats. Invisible until someone needs them. They carry silver trays laden with champagne flutes and tiny, perfect appetizers.
The air is thick with competing scents—truffle oil, caviar, the cloying sweetness of the lilies lining every surface. My stomach churns.
A server approaches. Male. Nondescript. His face partially hidden by the brim of his cap, pulled low.
Nothing remarkable. Just another piece of background staff.
He raises his tray toward us. Champagne flutes arranged in precise rows.
Then his hand jerks.
The movement is so small I almost miss it. But the result is spectacular.
A flute tips. Champagne arcs through the air in a glittering cascade. The cold liquid hits my dress, soaking through silk in an instant.
I gasp. Step back. The champagne is frigid against my skin, spreading across my stomach and thighs.
"Oh, I do apologize, Miss." The server's voice is low. Cultured. Familiar in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
He straightens, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses with one hand. Wild gray hair frames his face—too long, slightly unkempt. The kind of dishevelment that looks accidental but probably isn't.
Our eyes meet.
Kind eyes. Warm. Unmistakable despite the disguise.
Anthony.
Paul's butler. Here. In my father's house. Dressed as a server and spilling champagne on me like he's just another clumsy employee.