Chapter Two
THEY DON'T LET ME WALK.
Well. They try to let me walk. Two of Devyn's men flank me the moment we leave the chapel, their hands hovering near my arms in that universal gesture of move along now, and I do move.
I'm moving. My legs are working, technically, even if they feel like they're made of something unreliable. Jello. Wet cement. Overcooked pasta.
But apparently I'm not moving fast enough.
I hear footsteps behind me. Quick. Decisive. And then the world tilts sideways, and I'm suddenly up.
Up, as in off my feet.
Up, as in cradled against a broad chest that smells like expensive cologne and something warmer underneath.
Up, as in Devyn Chaleur has just scooped me into his arms like I weigh nothing, and he's carrying me out of his own wedding chapel without breaking stride.
"What are you—put me down—"
"You were too slow."
That's it. That's his entire explanation. Four words, delivered in a tone so matter-of-fact you'd think he was explaining why the sky is blue. I was too slow, so obviously the only logical solution was to pick me up and carry me like a—like a—
"I can walk!"
"Slower than I'd like."
"That's not a reason to—"
"It's the only reason that matters."
His arms tighten fractionally, adjusting my weight like it's nothing, and I become acutely aware of several things at once.
One: His chest is very solid. Very, very solid. The kind of solid that makes you understand why women in romance novels are always swooning against things.
Two: His arms are very strong. Not straining-strong, not showing-off-strong, but casually-carrying-a-whole-human-without-breaking-a-sweat strong.
Three: He smells really, really good. Cedar and something smoky and warm skin and—
Stop smelling him, Bailey.
Four: His men are watching.
That last one snaps me back to reality. A dozen armed guards, trained and disciplined, and not one of them reacts to their boss carrying a strange woman out of the chapel like this is completely normal behavior.
Like he does this all the time. Like they've learned not to question anything he does, no matter how insane it seems.
What kind of man inspires that level of obedience?
The kind from the book, Bailey. The kind you specifically avoided reading about.
I stop struggling. Not because I've accepted this—I have not accepted this—but because fighting him is clearly pointless, and also I'm a little worried about what happens if he decides to just drop me.
Also my face is approximately three inches from his neck and I'm trying very hard not to breathe.
He carries me out of the chapel and into the blinding brightness of late afternoon.
Golden light, blue sky, the kind of weather that photographers call "magic hour" because it makes everything look like a dream.
There are cars lined up on the gravel drive, sleek and black and expensive, and he walks straight toward one of them without slowing down.
A man in a dark suit scrambles to open the back door.
Devyn deposits me inside. One moment I'm in his arms; the next I'm on soft leather, slightly breathless, and he's straightening, and—
He doesn't step back.
He's still there, one hand braced on the roof of the car, the other on the open door, and he's looking down at me with those impossible golden eyes.
The afternoon light catches his face at an angle that should be unflattering—direct sun is harsh on everyone—but apparently Devyn Chaleur didn't get that memo.
Neither of us moves.
I should say something. I should demand answers, or threaten to scream, or do literally anything other than sit here staring up at him like my brain has completely stopped working.
But his gaze drops to my mouth.
Just for a second. Just long enough for me to notice.
And when his eyes come back up to mine, there's something in them I can't read. Something that makes my breath catch for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with being manhandled.
Then he steps back.
The door closes.
And he's gone.
I sit there, heart pounding, trying to remember how oxygen works.
My hand flies to my hair. Is it a mess? Why do I care if it's a mess? He literally just manhandled me out of a building, and I'm worried about my hair—
I catch my reflection in the tinted window.
My face is red. Actually red. Not "oh she's a little flushed" red but full-on tomato, someone-painted-FEELINGS-across-her-cheeks red.
Oh no.
He definitely saw that.
Okay. Okay, Bailey. Think.
Fact one: I am in a car.
Fact two: I was just carried here by a fictional mafia king because I wasn't walking fast enough.
Fact three: He looked at my mouth.
Fact four: My body is still tingling everywhere he touched me.
Fact five: Facts three and four are deeply concerning and I'm choosing to ignore them.
Fact six: I am failing to ignore them.
The engine starts. We begin to move.
There's a driver up front, separated from me by a privacy partition. Another man in the passenger seat. Neither of them turns around or acknowledges my existence, which is somehow worse than if they'd pointed a gun at me. At least with a gun, I'd know where I stood.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and watch the world slide by.
We're on a private road, trees lining both sides, and the afternoon light slants through the leaves in patterns that make me think of impressionist paintings.
Monet. Renoir. Artists who understood that light could be broken into a thousand pieces and still be beautiful.
And then the trees end, and I see it.
The estate.
Stone walls the color of old honey rise three stories high, with dormer windows and copper gutters gone green with age. The architecture is French-influenced, old-money elegant, the kind of building that whispers about generations of wealth so vast it stopped being about money a long time ago.
Gardens. Geometric hedges. A fountain in the center of the circular drive, water catching the late sun like liquid gold.
Everything is perfect. Everything is precise. Not a single blade of grass out of place.
This place is him. Every inch of it designed, curated, controlled.
And now I'm in it.
THE INTERIOR MATCHES the exterior. Grand. Impeccable. Intimidating.
High ceilings. A chandelier that costs more than my annual salary. Marble floors so polished I can see my own reflection, small and rumpled and completely out of place.
Staff members move through the space with quiet efficiency. They glance at me as I pass, their expressions carefully blank, and I realize with a jolt that they don't know who I am.
Of course they don't.
To them, I'm just the woman from the chapel. The stranger who appeared at the exact wrong moment. An anomaly in this perfect house.
A silver-haired man leads me up a sweeping staircase, down a hallway lined with paintings, and stops in front of a door.
"Your room, miss. Someone will bring you dinner shortly."
My room. Like I'm a guest at a hotel.
I step inside.
The room is beautiful. A four-poster bed with silk hangings. Antique furniture. Windows overlooking the gardens. A fireplace. A door that probably leads to a bathroom with marble floors and gold fixtures.
It's also, unmistakably, a cage.
The door behind me doesn't lock. I check. But when I ease it open a crack, I see them: two men on either side of the hallway, backs straight, faces forward.
I close the door.
Okay. Okay.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and try to breathe. The mattress is impossibly soft, the kind of expensive-soft that makes you feel cradled. Under other circumstances, I might appreciate it.
Under these circumstances, all I can think about is the man who carried me here. His arms around me. His eyes on my mouth.
Stop it, Bailey.
My phone.
The thought cuts through everything else. My phone was dead in the bookshop, but maybe...
I dig into my pocket with shaking hands. It's there. Small and familiar and so beautifully ordinary.
I press the power button.
The screen lights up.
Seventy-three percent battery. Full signal. Everything working exactly as it should.
For one wild, hopeful moment, I think: I can call for help. I can call 911. I can call Heart and tell her I've been kidnapped by fictional characters and please, please come get me.
And then I see the date.
The date is wrong.
Not just wrong. Impossible.
According to my phone, it's three weeks ago. Three weeks before the day I walked into Hewhay's bookshop. Three weeks before Marilyn came into the studio. Three weeks before everything.
I stare at the screen.
I stare at it until the numbers blur.
Then, with fingers that don't feel like mine, I open my text messages.
They're there. All of them. Messages from Heart about work schedules. Messages from the group chat with the other assistants. A message from my mom asking if I wanted to come home for dinner next Sunday.
But the dates are wrong. Everything is from three weeks ago or earlier.
I check my email. Same thing.
I check social media. My accounts are there. My posts are there. My life is there, laid out in pictures and status updates, exactly as I remember it.
Except.
I scroll through Lauve Studio's page, looking for the post about Marilyn's wedding. The one that made Heart assign me to the account because she knew—she knew—it would twist something in me.
It's not there.
Marilyn's wedding hasn't been booked yet. Because according to this timeline, Marilyn hasn't walked into the studio yet. Because according to this timeline, that day hasn't happened.
I open my contacts. Find Heart's number. My thumb hovers over the call button.
And I realize I have no idea what I would say.
Hi, it's Bailey. I know we talked yesterday except yesterday hasn't happened yet. Also I'm trapped in a book and a mafia king wants to marry me. How's your Tuesday?
I set the phone down on the bed beside me.
I stare at the silk canopy above me.
And I try very, very hard not to scream.
HERE'S THE THING ABOUT photographs.