Chapter One #3
I set the book down on the table beside my empty cup. Lean my head back against the velvet armchair. The cushions seem to mold around me, impossibly soft.
I'll just close my eyes for a second.
Just until I can gather the energy to face whatever disaster is waiting for me at the studio.
Just until...
I WAKE UP TO THE SOUND of running.
Not running. Fleeing. Frantic footsteps on marble, the rustle of fabric, ragged breathing that sounds like barely-contained sobs.
I jerk upright and the world is wrong.
No velvet armchair. No amber lanterns. No bookshelves arranged by color like a designer's fever dream.
Instead: marble floors, so polished I can see the ghost of my own reflection.
Stained glass windows that fragment the light into shattered rainbows.
Pews draped in black silk, and roses everywhere, massive arrangements of them, the kind that cost more per stem than I make in an hour.
They're beautiful. They're also scentless, which means they're the really expensive kind, bred for appearance over everything else.
A chapel.
I'm standing in a chapel.
And there's a figure in black running toward me.
My first thought, absurdly, is: Ghost.
My second thought is to form a cross with my fingers because that's what they do in the movies, right? Ghosts hate crosses? Or is that vampires? Either way, I'm raising my hands, ready to—
Wait.
Is that mascara running down her cheeks?
Since when do ghosts wear makeup?
"S'il vous pla?t!"
And speak French?
The ghost—woman—bride?—grabs my shoulders, and her nails dig in hard enough to make me wince.
Okay, definitely real. Definitely real because she smells amazing, like jasmine and something sweeter, and her nails are also definitely going to leave marks.
I look at her, but my own confusion and shock makes me blind to her as a human.
All I can see is her as the subject of a photo.
Black gown trailing behind her like a river of ink, veil half-torn and streaming.
Even with her makeup ruined and her hair coming loose from what was probably an elaborate updo, she's the kind of beautiful that doesn't seem real.
The kind you see in Renaissance paintings, all soft edges and luminous skin.
Delicate features. The sort of bone structure that looks good from every—
"Are you listening to me?!"
She’s switched to English, and it makes her terror more palpable. And instantly effective in snapping me out of my mental fugue.
Focus, Bailey!
“He’s gone insane!”
Who’s he, and why should I care?
“You should hide, too!”
Before I can respond, she's running again. Heading for the left wall, for a panel carved with roses that I somehow know isn't just decorative.
She presses her palm against the center bloom.
A door groans open. Hidden. Secret.
She looks back at me one more time. Her eyes are the color of rain, wide with terror and something that might be gratitude.
And then she's gone.
Swallowed by the darkness behind the wall.
The door slides shut.
I stand there.
Alone.
In a chapel that smells like money and scentless roses and someone else's ruined wedding.
My brain is doing that thing it does when too much is happening at once. Just...stalling. Buffering. Like a computer that's been asked to process a file that's way too big.
Okay. Okay. Let's break this down.
Fact one: I was in a bookshop.
Fact two: I drank mysterious tea.
Fact three: I fell asleep.
Fact four: I am now in a chapel.
Fact five: A bride just ran past me and disappeared through a secret door.
Fact six: She told me to hide because someone—"he"—has gone insane.
Conclusion: I am hallucinating. That tea was definitely drugged. This is all happening in my head while my body is probably slumped in that velvet armchair and the mysterious shopkeeper is calling an ambulance—
The chapel doors burst open.
MEN POUR IN.
A dozen of them, maybe more, all in dark suits, all armed. They fan out with military precision, guns raised, and within seconds I'm surrounded.
I should be terrified.
I am terrified.
But there's also a small, hysterical part of my brain that's thinking: This is the inciting incident. This is where the story really starts.
Which means—
The men part.
And he walks through.
I didn't look at his illustration in the book. I skipped right past it, didn't let myself linger, didn't want to know what he looked like.
But I know anyway.
Dark hair, a little too long, pushed back from a face that's all sharp angles. Golden eyes. Actually golden, like honey, like amber, like something that shouldn't exist in nature. The kind of coloring you'd have to color-correct in post because no one would believe it was real.
He's tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a suit that fits him so perfectly it had to be made for him, charcoal gray with a subtle sheen that catches the stained-glass light.
The light from the windows falls directly on his face. It should be unflattering, that angle. It exposes everything. Most people look worse in direct overhead light; it creates shadows under the eyes, highlights every flaw.
He doesn't have any flaws.
Or maybe he does, and he just doesn't care who sees them.
Something twists in my stomach. Something warm and unwanted.
No. Absolutely not. I already did my stupid thing for the day. I drank the mysterious tea, and now I'm hallucinating, and I am not going to make things worse by being attracted to the figment of my drugged imagination.
Devyn Chaleur.
Mafia King of the South.
The one route I refused to read.
He stops in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Close enough that I can see the faint scar at the corner of his jaw, the way his mouth is set in a line that isn't quite a frown but isn't anywhere near a smile.
He doesn't look angry.
That's somehow worse.
My father's anger was a wildfire. Loud and hot and impossible to miss. You always knew when it was coming. You had time to get out of the way.
But this man...
His anger is buried deep. I can feel it underneath the surface, banked like coals that could flare at any moment. But his face gives nothing away. His body gives nothing away. He holds himself like a man who learned a long time ago that showing emotion was a weakness he couldn't afford.
I wonder who taught him that.
When he speaks, his voice is low. Quiet. The barest trace of a French accent curling around the vowels, and oh no, that's attractive too, that's unfairly attractive—
"Where is Abigail?"
Abigail.
So that's her name. The runaway bride with the rain-colored eyes.
I could tell him. I could point to the hidden door, explain that I just woke up here, that I have no idea what's going on, that I'm not part of whatever this is.
But something stops me.
Maybe it's the way she looked at me before she disappeared. The terror in her eyes, so raw and real it made my chest ache. He's gone insane, she said. And if she meant him—if she meant the man standing in front of me with his golden eyes and his cold anger and his army of men with guns—
Then she was running from him.
No wonder she ran.
Or maybe it's just that I've never been a tattletale.
Even when it would have been easier. Even when it would have saved me. There's something in me that can't do it. Can't sell someone out, even a stranger, even when I don't know if she deserves my silence.
I look Devyn Chaleur in his golden, impossible eyes.
And I say nothing.
The silence stretches between us.
One second.
Two.
Something shifts in his expression. It's barely there, just the slightest tightening around his eyes, but I catch it. I'm trained to catch it. Years of photographing brides has taught me to read the micro-expressions people don't know they're making.
He's surprised.
He didn't expect me to stay silent.
"You were here when she ran." It's not a question. "You saw where she went."
Still, I don't answer.
Another shift. This one I can't read as easily. Interest, maybe. Or something colder.
"Dis-moi," he says softly. Tell me. "Where is my bride?"
His bride.
The beautiful, terrified girl with mascara running down her face was supposed to marry this man. This man with his banked anger and his golden eyes and his small army of men with guns.
The thought rises up before I can stop it, and maybe something shows on my face, because Devyn's expression shifts again.
"You think you're protecting her." His voice is still soft. Still quiet. But there's an edge to it now, sharp enough to cut. "How...noble."
I should stay quiet. I should stay small. I should do what I've always done, what I learned to do in a house where anger filled every room and the only way to survive was to become invisible.
But something happens instead.
Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's the sheer impossibility of this situation, the fact that I'm standing in a book I fell asleep reading, being interrogated by a fictional mafia king about a bride I watched escape through a secret door.
Maybe it's the memory of Marilyn's smile this morning, and Heart's ultimatum, and every single time I've swallowed my own voice because it was easier than fighting.
Or maybe I'm just tired.
Tired of being the one who backs down. Tired of being the one who stays quiet. Tired of being someone that people look at and see nothing worth taking seriously.
I lift my chin.
"I'm not telling you anything."
The words hang in the air between us.
I have no idea where they came from. That's not me. I don't talk back. I don't challenge. I don't look dangerous men in the eye and refuse to give them what they want.
Except apparently, I do.
Apparently, in this world, in this story, I do.
Devyn doesn't react. Not visibly. His face remains perfectly still, perfectly composed. But something happens behind his eyes. A door opening. A calculation being made.
And then Devyn Chaleur smiles.
It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of a man who's used to getting everything he wants, and who's just found something that refuses to be gotten.
It's also, unfortunately, a devastating smile.
The kind that transforms his whole face, softens those sharp angles, makes him look almost human. Almost approachable. Almost like someone you could trust.
Which he isn't. Obviously. He's a mafia king with an army and a runaway bride and a legendary temper, and I am not going to be distracted by a nice smile.
Handsome smile.
I meant handsome. No, horrible. Horrible smile.
And he's someone else's groom, let's not forget that. His bride literally just ran away, so any attraction I might be feeling is completely inappropriate and also probably a symptom of whatever was in that tea—
But his bride ran away. So technically he's single now. Available. Ready to—
Oh my gosh, Bailey. Stop.
"Très bien," Devyn murmurs. Very well. "Then you'll pay the price for your silence."
He reaches out. Catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. Tilts my face up toward his.
His touch is warm. His hands are steady. No tremor, no hesitation. He touches me like he has every right to, like my personal space is just another thing he owns.
And my stupid, traitorous body likes it.
Heat blooms where his fingers meet my skin. My breath catches. My pulse does something complicated that definitely isn't fear, or at least isn't only fear.
His golden eyes drop to my mouth for just a second. Just long enough for me to notice.
And when his gaze comes back up to meet mine, there's something new in it. Something knowing. Something that says he felt that too, and he's very aware that I'm trying to pretend I didn't.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
"My bride ran away." His thumb traces along my jaw. Slow. Unhurried. "You will take her place."
My heart stops.
Starts again.
Starts pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my temples, my fingertips.
No.
No.
This is the one route I didn't read. The one hero I avoided. The one story I refused to let myself fall into.
And now I'm trapped in it.
"Bienvenue à ta nouvelle vie," Devyn says softly. Welcome to your new life. His golden eyes hold mine, and there's something in them I can't read. Something that lives in the shadows his perfect composure can't quite hide. "Bailey."
He knows my name.
How does he know my name?
But of course he does.
I'm the heroine of this story.
I just have no idea how it ends.