CHAPTER 7
THE BLACK VEIL
POV: IVY
I am standing on a pedestal.
Literally. A small, velvet-covered circular platform in the center of the guest bedroom.
"You have the waist of a wasp, honey," the stylist says, her mouth full of pins. Her name is Chloe. She has platinum blonde hair, a bright pink pantsuit, and absolutely no idea that she is dressing a hostage. "Mr. Vane said you were petite, but my god, you’re like a little porcelain doll. I’m terrified I’m going to break you. "
I’m already broken, I think, but I don't say it. I just stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror Chloe brought with her.
The woman staring back at me looks like a stranger.
Her skin has been scrubbed, moisturized, and highlighted until it glows with an unnatural luminescence.
Her hair, usually a frizzy mess of caramel waves, has been tamed into a sleek, glossy waterfall that cascades down her back, pinned away from her face with pearl clips.
Her lips are painted a deep, bruised berry color.
And the dress.
It’s not white.
"It’s champagne silk with a black lace overlay," Chloe chatters on, adjusting the hem. "Vintage Dior, adapted. Mr. Vane was very specific. He didn't want pure white. He said it was... too innocent."
I shiver. The dress is breathtaking, objectively. It has a high, Victorian neckline that chokes me gently with lace, and long, fitted sleeves that end in points over the backs of my hands. The bodice is tight, acting like a corset, holding me upright when all I want to do is collapse.
But the back... the back is open. A deep, plunging V that exposes my spine all the way down to the small of my back. It makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like I’m armored in front but defenseless from behind.
"He has excellent taste," Chloe says, stepping back to admire her work. "Most billionaires just throw a credit card at a personal shopper. But he picked this out himself. He even sent the measurements. He must really love you."
I look at the dark circles under my eyes, carefully concealed with expensive concealer. "Yeah. He’s obsessed."
Chloe laughs, thinking I’m joking. "Well, with a face like that, who wouldn't be? You’re a lucky girl, Ivy. Do you know how many women in this city would kill to be in your shoes right now? Silas Vane is... well, he’s a king."
"And I’m the tribute," I whisper.
"What was that, hon?"
"Nothing." I step down from the pedestal, my legs trembling. "Is it time?"
Chloe checks her watch. "Five minutes. The judge is setting up in the living room. Or, I guess, the Great Hall. That room is bigger than my entire apartment building."
She hands me a bouquet. It’s not roses. It’s dark purple calla lilies, almost black, tied with a velvet ribbon. They look like funeral flowers.
"Ready?" she asks, beaming.
I nod, because if I speak, I might vomit.
She leads me to the door. I feel like I’m walking to the gallows.
The hallway is dim. The art on the walls seems to watch me as we pass. We reach the end of the corridor, where the living room opens up.
The sun has set. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows are now walls of darkness, reflecting the interior of the penthouse like black mirrors. The city lights of Manhattan twinkle below, a million indifferent stars.
Silas is waiting.
He is standing in front of the fireplace, his back to the wall of glass. He has changed. He’s wearing a black tuxedo that fits him like a second skin, tailored to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. He looks lethal. Elegant.
When I step into the room, he stops talking to the man beside him—the judge, a balding man in a cheap suit who looks nervous.
Silas turns his gaze on me.
The air in the room instantly becomes too thin.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't look happy. He looks... hungry. His blue eyes sweep over me, devouring every inch of the silk, the lace, the exposed skin of my neck. He lingers on the diamond choker, which I’m still wearing. It sits above the lace neckline of the dress, a double claim.
I stop walking. My feet feel like they are encased in concrete.
Silas steps forward. He crosses the room in three long strides, ignoring everyone else. He stops in front of me, invading my space, his scent of sandalwood and winter enveloping me.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. It’s not a compliment. It’s an appraisal.
He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush the sensitive skin of my neck, and a jolt of electricity shoots down my spine.
"You’re shaking," he notes softly.
"I’m terrified," I whisper back.
"Good. Fear means you’re paying attention."
He offers me his arm.
I look at it. The fabric of his tuxedo jacket is fine wool. Underneath is the muscle that pinned me to the wall last night. Underneath is the man who carved an eye out of a Russian mobster.
I have no choice.
I place my hand on his arm. His muscles bunch beneath my touch, hard and unyielding.
He leads me to the fireplace. The judge clears his throat, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Luca stands to the side, acting as a witness. He’s wearing a gun in a shoulder holster over his dress shirt.
A wedding with guns. How fitting.
"We are gathered here today," the judge begins, his voice shaking slightly, "to join Silas Vane and Ivy Ross in holy matrimony."
Holy. The word feels like a blasphemy in this room.
I tune out the words. I focus on the flickering gas flames in the fireplace. I focus on the reflection of myself in the glass. I look like a ghost in that dress. A shadow caught in a spiderweb.
I feel Silas’s gaze on the side of my face. It’s heavy, physical. He isn't looking at the judge. He’s watching me breathe.
"Do you, Silas Vane, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?"
"To have and to hold," Silas repeats. His voice is deep, resonating through my chest. He emphasizes the words have and hold. "I do."
The judge turns to me. "And do you, Ivy Ross..."
He recites the vows. They sound like a sentence. To love, cherish, and obey. Did he say obey? Or did my mind just fill that in?
"Ivy?" Silas prompts. His hand tightens over mine. A warning. Say it.
I look up at him. The scar through his eyebrow is stark in the firelight.
"I..." My voice cracks. I swallow, trying to wet my dry throat. "I do."
"Then, by the power vested in me by the State of New York..." The judge speeds up, eager to be done, eager to get away from the predator in the tuxedo. "I pronounce you husband and wife."
He looks at Silas. "You may kiss the bride."
Silas turns to me fully. He releases my arm and brings both hands up to cup my face. His thumbs trace my cheekbones. His palms are warm, rough, possessive.
"Mine," he whispers, so low only I can hear.
He lowers his head.
I close my eyes. I brace myself for violence. I expect him to crush my mouth, to hurt me, to prove his dominance.
But the kiss is... soft.
His lips brush mine, tasting, testing. He is gentle, terrifyingly so. It’s a slow, languid exploration, a savoring of the moment. He tastes like scotch and mint. He kisses me like I am something precious. Like I am something he has waited a lifetime to touch.
For a second—just a split second—my body betrays me. I lean into him. I soften against his chest. The warmth of him is a lifeline in the freezing cold of my fear.
Then he pulls back.
His eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated, swallowing the blue. He looks triumphant.
"Mrs. Vane," he says, testing the name.
He turns to Luca. "Pay the judge. Get everyone out."
"Yes, Boss."
"Wait," I say, panic flaring again as the reality sets in. The ceremony is over. The buffer of the strangers is leaving. "Where... where are they going?"
"They’re leaving, Ivy," Silas says, taking my hand again. He runs his thumb over the black diamond ring on my finger. "The show is over."
"But dinner..." I stammer. "You said there was dinner."
"I lied."
He pulls me closer, his arm wrapping around my waist, his fingers splaying over the exposed skin of my back. His touch burns.
"I’m not hungry for food."
The judge scuttles out of the room like a frightened rat. Chloe the stylist is already gone. Luca nods once and disappears into the elevator.
The doors slide shut.
We are alone.
The penthouse is silent, save for the hum of the city below and the crackle of the fire.
Silas looks down at me. The mask of civility he wore for the judge drops completely. The look on his face now is raw, primal, and utterly terrifying.
"You look breathtaking in this dress," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "But it has served its purpose."
He takes a step toward the hallway leading to the master bedroom. He pulls me with him.
"Where are we going?" I ask, digging my heels into the rug, though I know it’s futile.
"To consummate our marriage, wife."
He stops and scoops me up into his arms, bridal style. The bouquet of black lilies falls from my hand, landing on the floor with a soft thud.
I wrap my arms around his neck instinctively to keep from falling. I can feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart against my ribs.
"Silas, please," I whisper, burying my face in his tuxedo jacket. "I’m not ready."
He carries me down the hall, his strides long and purposeful.
"You’ve been ready for months," he says. "You just didn't know it."
He kicks open the door to the bedroom. The black silk sheets are turned down. The city lights cast long shadows across the bed.
He walks over and sets me down on the edge of the mattress. He stands between my spread knees, towering over me.
He reaches for his tie and begins to undo it.
"Welcome to your life, Ivy," he says, tossing the tie onto the floor. "There’s no going back now."
The sound of his zipper lowering is the loudest thing in the world.
And for the first time since he took me, I realize that the cage isn't just this apartment.
The cage is him.
And he just locked the door.