Chapter 1

Cassidy

The air in the villa is ripe with the scent of a thousand white lilies, their fragrance so heavy it feels like a weight on my skin, a sweet, cloying perfume of obligation. Outside the vast arched window, the late morning sun shatters across the surface of the lake, a million brilliant, blinding diamonds. Everything is perfect. So relentlessly, suffocatingly perfect.

My reflection in the glass agrees—a stranger in an avalanche of white Vera Wang silk, her dark skin glowing against the pristine fabric, her expression a placid, media-trained mask. A perfect bride for a perfect deal. This is the culmination of my life's training: to be poised, to be graceful, to be the unshakeable heiress of the St. James beauty empire. Today, I am less a woman getting married and more a high-value asset being merged.

My thumb finds the familiar, worn shape of my grandmother’s locket at my throat. It’s a nervous habit, one my mother despises. A crack in the facade. I press into the engraved gold, grounding myself.

The door bursts open, and a whirlwind of fuchsia Tom Ford and frantic energy that is Jaden storms in, his Louboutins clicking a frantic rhythm against the marble. "Cassandra St. James, you are serving bridal perfection on a level that is frankly criminal," he declares, striking a pose by the chaise lounge. "I’ve seen three grown men weep already, and the ceremony hasn't even started. They're flooding the hydrangeas."

I allow a genuine smile, the first one today. It feels like stretching a muscle I haven't used in weeks. "They were probably weeping for my freedom, Jaden."

He sniffs, waving a dismissive hand as he snatches a champagne flute from a passing server. "Freedom is a state of mind, darling. And yours is currently in a gilded cage with excellent catering. Here." He presses the cool glass into my hand, his dark eyes glinting with a familiar, delicious conspiracy. "A little something to take the edge off perfection."

I know I shouldn't. Mother has a strict no-alcohol-before-the-vows policy. It dulls the senses, she says. Makes one unpredictable. But as I look at my reflection again—the poised heiress, the dutiful daughter, the woman who has trained herself to be content with a life chosen for her—a hot spark of rebellion ignites in my chest. I pointedly meet Jaden’s gaze in the mirror and take a deliberate, defiant sip. The champagne is crisp and cold, a tiny, sharp shock to my system. A choice, however small, that is entirely my own in a day that belongs to everyone but me.

"Jaden. Must you encourage her?"

The temperature in the room plummets twenty degrees. My mother, Naomi St. James, stands in the doorway, a vision of steel-grey couture and even colder disapproval. Her eyes slide over Jaden, dismissing him as one might an over-eager caterer who has forgotten his place. "And for God's sake, put that glass down, Cassidy. You are not some common reality star pawning her wedding photos."

Jaden gasps, placing a hand over his heart in a gesture of magnificent offense. "My theatrics, Naomi," he says, his voice rising in pitch and volume, "are the only thing keeping this entire affair from feeling like a corporate merger! Which, let's be honest, is exactly what it is! Do you want her walking down that aisle or executing a hostile takeover?"

"I want her composed," my mother snaps, her attention already on a microscopic speck of lint on my train, which she flicks away with a sharp, irritated motion. "Something you know nothing about."

"Oh, I know everything about composure!" Jaden shrieks, now fully launched into his tirade, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "I am the king of composure! I once smiled my way through a two-hour dinner next to a man who wore Crocs to the Met Gala! Do not speak to me of composure!"

I step between them, placing a hand on Jaden’s arm, the silk of my dress whispering a complaint. My one moment of defiance has dissolved back into my primary role: chief diplomat in my own life. "Jaden, breathe. Mother, please. Not today."

My mother’s lips thin into a bloodless line, but before she can deliver a final, cutting blow, a shriek cuts through the air from outside.

It’s sharp and terrified, followed by a loud, undignified splash.

The three of us turn to the window. On the perfectly manicured lawn below, a scene of chaos is unfolding. Guests in pastel silks and bespoke suits are scrambling back from the water's edge. A woman—Clarissa Whitehall, I realize with a jolt, whose family owns half of the Hamptons—is being hauled out of the lake by two waiters, her mint green Chanel suit now a sodden, clinging mess.

"My God," my mother breathes, her horror absolute. Not for Clarissa's safety, but for the breach in protocol. For the unscripted moment of glorious, unhinged mess that will be on Page Six by sundown.

The carefully orchestrated calm of the day shatters. I can hear the wedding planner, Colette, speaking into her headset in frantic, clipped tones. Jaden is still fuming, muttering about the "sheer audacity of some people's mothers." My mother is already on the phone with her assistant, her voice a low, furious hiss. "Get her a blanket. And get her out of sight. Now."

The single rebellious sip of champagne is a distant, forgotten memory. I fight to anchor myself in the poise I have spent a lifetime perfecting, forcing my shoulders back, my chin up. This is just another crisis to be managed. A guest in the lake. 

My fiancé, Owen, is still nowhere to be seen, and it’s five minutes past the start of the ceremony. Another small, manageable crisis. My thumb rubs the locket, back and forth, back and forth. A smooth, golden lie.

I watch Colette, the planner, as she tries to project calm, her smile stretched into a painful rictus. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for something, for someone. For my groom. The whispers from the staff, once discreet, are growing louder, more frantic. The air itself feels thin, stretched to its breaking point. A junior planner rushes up to Colette, whispering urgently. Colette’s smile falters. It’s now ten minutes past.

I am standing alone in the room, an island of white silk in a rising tide of chaos, when I see Colette press her finger to her earpiece, her back to me. Her shoulders tense. Even from across the room, I can see the color drain from her face.

Her next words, a panicked, broken whisper into the microphone on her lapel, cut through the noise with the finality of a gunshot.

"He's not just late. He's gone."