Chapter 21 Rose
ROSE
I’m dressed in white.
The room smells like perfume and hairspray and something sharp underneath it all, like nerves pretending to be celebration. The gown is expensive, of course. Silk that whispers when I move. Lace hand-stitched by someone who was paid not to think about who would be wearing it.
My mother hovers, checking details, issuing instructions like she’s overseeing a merger instead of a wedding. “We’re running behind. Sit still,” she instructs.
I do as I’m told.
Outwardly, I’m calm. Inwardly, I’m unraveling one careful thread at a time.
When no one is looking, I slip my hand beneath the bodice and feel for the small container tucked securely against my skin. It’s cool, solid. Reassuring in the bleakest way.
A fail-safe.
I learned about it weeks ago, late at night in a library I’ll never stop loving, from a book that spoke calmly about things that kill as easily as they heal. About beauty and danger sharing the same root.
My mother snaps her fingers. “Brooklyn.”
I flinch despite myself.
“That is not my name,” I say quietly.
She ignores it.
A mirror is pressed into my hands. Lipstick is applied, adjusted, perfected. I pretend to fuss over it, adding one last careful touch, steadying my breath as my fingers brush my mouth.
If this is how it ends, then it ends on my terms.
The music swells outside. My cue.
My mother takes my arm, her grip firm, proprietary. “Smile,” she murmurs. “Everyone is watching.”
“Good.”
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing.”
The doors open.
Light floods in, white and blinding, bouncing off glass and marble and faces turned expectant. Applause ripples through the space like a reflex. I walk because my legs know how, because stopping now would only invite hands on my back.
Anton waits at the altar.
He looks exactly as he always did—expensive, pleased with himself. Like a man who has never doubted that the world will bend eventually.
The officiant speaks. Words slide past me, hollow and ceremonial. I focus on breathing. On keeping my hands steady. On the weight of the small choice I’ve already made.
“Do you, Anton Ilyovich Pavlov, take Brooklyn Lark to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” Anton says.
“And do you, Brooklyn Lark, take Anton Ilyovich Pavlov as your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I don’t.” I smile.
The officiant pretends I said yes anyways.
Anton smirks as he puts the ring on my finger. I don’t put a ring on his. Don’t say vows. I stand still as a salt statue, expressionless, a heavy weight settling in my heart.
But when Anton leans in, I don’t hesitate.
I kiss him.
His mouth tastes like champagne and entitlement. It’s disgusting, but I force myself to go through with it. I keep the contact brief but deliberate, my lips pressed where they need to be, long enough. Long enough for him to smile against my mouth and run his tongue over my bottom lip, satisfied.
My heart is hammering so hard it hurts.
This is it.
I pull back.
For one horrible second, nothing happens.
Then Anton stiffens.
It’s subtle at first. His grin falters, his jaw tightening like something has seized up inside it. His hand twitches where it rests on mine. Confusion flashes across his face, quickly followed by something uglier.
Fear.
He swallows hard.
I feel it then too.
The world tilts slightly, like the floor has shifted an inch to the left. A cold sheen breaks across my skin. My fingers start to tremble, fine and uncontrollable, and my vision blurs at the edges.
So it is working.
On him faster than on me.
Good.
“What…” Anton chokes. “Did… you do…?”
Atropa belladonna. Also known as deadly nightshade. Its flowers are a sight to behold, but touching it too freely can spell your doom.
And licking it off someone’s lips will seal it.
“I got free.” I flash him one last smile. “Sweet dreams, darling.”
My chest tightens, breath coming shallow now. I should feel triumph. Relief. Instead, the only thing in my head is Matteo’s face—serious, intent, the way he looks at me like I matter. His kisses on my lips, the only ones I ever wanted to remember.
I wish we’d met in a kinder world. A better one.
And that I’d been brave enough to tell him the truth.
Anton makes another choking sound. Someone gasps. The murmurs ripple outward, confusion spreading through the room like a crack in glass.
My knees buckle.
Cold sweat slicks my spine. The ceiling swims. This is the part I knew was coming, the cost I accepted.
Better to die free than live chained.
I start to fall—
—and strong arms catch me.
I’m pulled against a solid chest, familiar in a way that steals the breath I have left. I hear shouting now, chaos erupting around us, but all of it feels distant, muffled.
“Rose.”
His voice cuts through everything.
Matteo.