Chapter Six
"MY LADY. MY LADY, please."
I pry my eyes open and find a young maid standing over me, her face tight with barely concealed panic. My head feels stuffed with cotton. My body feels like it's been filled with sand.
"What time is it?"
"Past nine, my lady. The ceremony begins at eleven. We need to start preparing you now."
Nine. I finally fell asleep sometime after dawn, which means I got maybe three hours.
But the maid said ceremony.
Which means there's a ceremony to attend.
Which means—
"He's back?" The words come out in an uneven croak. "Devyn. I mean, the king. He came back?"
The maid blinks at me. "Of course, my lady. He returned late last night. He's been in his study since dawn, preparing for the day."
He's alive.
He's here.
He came back.
Something loosens in my chest, something I didn't realize had been wound so tight. I press my hand to my sternum and try to remember how to breathe normally.
"My lady? Are you well? You've gone very pale."
"I'm fine." I push myself upright, ignoring the way the room sways. "Let's get started."
THE NEXT TWO HOURS pass in a blur. I'm bathed, perfumed, powdered. My hair is pinned and curled and arranged into something elaborate that I barely recognize. Makeup hides the shadows under my eyes, making me look like someone who actually slept.
And then there's the dress.
Abigail's dress.
They bring it in on a padded hanger, and for a long moment I just stare.
White silk and delicate lace, clearly expensive, clearly beautiful.
It's been altered to fit me, but as they help me into it, I can feel where it doesn't quite work.
The bodice is slightly too loose. The waist hits half an inch too high. The proportions are wrong for my frame.
This dress was made for someone taller. Someone with honey-blonde hair and a figure like a Renaissance painting.
This dress was made for Abigail.
I'm just the understudy who got shoved into it at the last minute.
"You look beautiful, my lady," the maid says.
I look at my reflection. Dark hair. Violet eyes. A face that doesn't match the dress it's wearing.
I look like a bride. Just not the one this wedding was designed for.
"Thank you," I say, and try to smile.
THE MAID LEADS ME THROUGH hallways I don't recognize, deeper into the estate than I've ever been. We pass through a heavy oak door, down a narrow staircase, and into a passage carved from solid stone.
Underground.
We're going underground.
Okay, Bailey. This is fine. This is totally normal. Brides walk through underground tunnels to their weddings all the time.
My mind starts doing what it always does when I'm nervous.
What if this is a prank? What if there's no wedding, just Devyn waiting to tell me he's changed his mind?
What if this isn't a wedding at all?
What if it's an execution?
The passage curves, and I can see light ahead. Warm, golden light.
We turn the final corner, and—
Oh.
I stop walking. I stop breathing.
It's a cavern.
A massive underground cavern, cathedral-high, with stalactites descending from the ceiling like frozen chandeliers.
But they're not frozen at all. They're glowing.
Someone has strung them with thousands of tiny lights, and they catch and refract off the mineral formations until the whole space shimmers like something out of a fairy tale.
The floor has been laid with pale stone, polished to a mirror shine. White flowers cascade from arrangements throughout the space. Rows of chairs face a raised platform where the judge waits, and every seat is filled with people in expensive clothes, their faces turning toward me.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I was expecting something cold and formal and political.
I wasn't expecting magic.
"My lady?" The maid touches my elbow. "It's time."
Music starts, something classical and solemn, echoing off the cavern walls. Every head turns toward me.
And I walk.
The aisle feels endless. Each step brings me closer to the platform, closer to Devyn, closer to a future I never chose. I keep my eyes forward, my chin up. The photographer in me is still working, still cataloging. The way light plays off the stalactites. The whispers that follow me.
"That's the new bride?"
"No one knows where she came from."
"She's not Abigail."
"Obviously not Abigail. Look at her."
I keep walking.
One man catches my attention. He's seated near the middle, dark-haired and handsome, watching me with an intensity that feels different from everyone else's curiosity.
Something about his smile makes my skin prickle.
I look away and keep walking.
And then I see her.
Third row. Beaming. Tears streaming down her face as she clutches a handkerchief and waves at me like we're at a parade instead of a wedding.
Mom.
My mother is here.
My mother is HERE, in this underground cavern, at my mafia wedding, wearing a floral dress that's completely wrong for the occasion and smiling like this is the happiest day of her life.
How is she here? How did she—
My eyes snap to Devyn. He's watching me with that unreadable expression, but there's something in his eyes. Something that might be satisfaction.
He did this.
He flew my mother here from Oregon. Found her, contacted her, arranged everything, and didn't say a word.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
I keep walking, and now I can hear my mother's voice carrying over the music.
"That's my baby! Look at her! Oh, she's so beautiful. I knew it, I knew from the moment she told me about him. You can hear it in someone's voice, you know? When it's real love. I could just tell."
Real love. She thinks this is real love.
That's my mother. Rose-colored glasses permanently affixed.
I reach the platform.
Devyn is right there, and everything else fades.
Up close, I can see what I couldn't from the entrance. The slight tension in his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes. He didn't sleep either. Or maybe he hasn't slept in days, handling whatever happened in New Jersey, and came straight here to marry a woman he barely knows.
His eyes meet mine, and for just a second, I see something flicker there.
Relief.
Then it's gone, and his face is a mask again.
“You came.”
“You brought my mother.”
We actually speak at the same time, and I don’t care if this doesn’t mean anything.
For me, it’s...it’s cute, and it bodes well for us, period.
"She was very enthusiastic about attending."
The corner of his mouth twitches as he says this. That almost-smile.
"She thinks we're in love,” I admit apologetically.
"Yes. She mentioned that. Several times."
Before I can respond, the judge steps forward, and the ceremony begins. He speaks about duty and commitment and the binding nature of vows. I stand beside Devyn and try to focus.
But my mind keeps drifting. To my mother, sniffling happily in the third row. To the stalactites glowing overhead. To the warmth of Devyn beside me.
I sneak glances at him. His profile is sharp and serious. His hands are clasped, perfectly still.
He could be carved from marble for all the emotion he shows.
And then it's time for the vows.
Devyn turns to face me. Takes my hands in his. His grip is warm and steady, and my pulse jumps traitorously.
He speaks in French first.
I don't understand the words. My French is limited to "bonjour" and "croissant" and “eureka”. Or maybe the last one isn’t even French?
So no, I don’t understand a single word he’s saying, but his tone?
Oh, his tone.
I understand the weight of each word, like he's carving promises into stone. And the way his eyes never leave mine as he speaks? It’s what makes nine-tenths of the law, and I...secretly like that it’s so.
Devyn finishes the French and switches to English. Standard words now. But his voice is still low, still intense, and he's still holding my hands like he has no intention of letting go.
Then it's my turn.
I say the words I'm supposed to say. I promise things I'm not sure I can deliver. My voice comes out steadier than I expected.
The judge nods. "You may kiss the bride."
I brace myself. This is it. The obligatory kiss. It'll be quick, perfunctory, just enough to satisfy the ceremony. He's not the type for public displays.
He doesn't keep it brief.
His hand comes up to the back of my head, fingers sliding into my carefully arranged hair. His thumb traces along my hairline.
And then he kisses me.
Not brief. Not perfunctory. Not for the crowd at all.
His mouth is warm and firm and insistent.
He kisses me like he's been thinking about it, like the almost-kiss three nights ago has been living in his head the same way it's been living in mine.
His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and I forget about the watching crowd, forget about the political theater, forget about everything except the taste of him.
When he finally pulls back, I'm not breathing.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Sixth time.
I'm still counting. Even now, even with my lips tingling and my heart pounding, I'm still keeping track.
He looks at my mouth like he's considering another taste.
He doesn't.
But I know he thought about it.
"Breathe," he murmurs.
I take a shaky breath.
His almost-smile appears.
The judge declares us married. The crowd applauds. Somewhere in the third row my mother is sobbing with joy. And Devyn tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and leads me back down the aisle as husband and wife.
THE RECEPTION IS HELD in the grand ballroom above ground.
Crystal chandeliers. White flowers everywhere. A string quartet. Waiters with champagne and tiny foods I can't identify. And people—so many people wanting to congratulate us, all of them watching me with curiosity and calculation.
My mother finds me within minutes, pulling me into a hug so tight I can barely breathe.