Chapter 1  

Simone

In exactly fifty-three minutes, I'll become Mrs. Vincent Douglas. In fifty-four minutes, I'll wish I were dead.

The crystal champagne flute trembles against my lips as I stare at the pregnancy test hidden beneath the silk lining of my clutch. Two pink lines stare back at me like an accusation, a secret I've been carrying for three days that feels heavier than the twelve-pound couture dress hanging on the door. The champagne is Perrier-Jouët Belle Epoque 2008—Vincent chose it, of course. Everything about this wedding has Vincent's fingerprints all over it, except for Vincent himself.

"You're going to ruin your lipstick if you keep biting it like that." My mother glides into the bridal suite at The St. Regis, her navy Chanel suit as impeccable as her timing. Genevieve Beaumont doesn't walk into rooms; she claims them. "The makeup artist will be here in ten minutes, and we cannot afford any delays."

"Good morning to you too, Mother." I snap the clutch closed and set it on the vanity, carefully arranging my face into something resembling bridal excitement. Twenty-three years of ballet training taught me that the show must go on, even when your body is screaming in protest. "Did you sleep well?"

"As well as one can when their daughter insists on pacing her suite until three in the morning." She sets down a silver tray with coffee and croissants, her manicured nails drumming once against the gleaming surface. "The walls at The St. Regis aren't as thick as you might imagine."

Heat crawls up my mahogany skin, the warmth highlighting the red undertones I inherited from my grandmother. I reach for the coffee with practiced nonchalance. The bitter aroma makes my stomach lurch—another fun pregnancy symptom to add to my growing collection. "Pre-wedding jitters. I'm sure you understand."

"What I understand is that five hundred guests will be seated at St. Patrick's Cathedral in less than two hours, expecting to witness the union of two of D.C.'s most prominent families." She adjusts the pearl necklace at her throat, a tell I've known since childhood. Genevieve Beaumont only fidgets with her jewelry when she's genuinely worried. "Your father has already fielded three calls from the Times this morning."

"About what?" I force down a sip of coffee, willing my stomach to cooperate.

"About why the groom's family seems curiously unconcerned that said groom hasn't been seen since Thursday evening." Her dark eyes search my face—the same hazel eyes I see in the mirror, the ones that flash green when I'm passionate about something. "Simone, if there's something you need to tell me—"

A sharp knock interrupts whatever maternal moment we might have shared. "Makeup's here!" My best friend Jade bursts through the door, her auburn hair still in rollers, carrying enough Starbucks to fuel a small army. "And before you say anything about the basic bitch coffee, just remember that not all of us have a mother who hand-delivers French press at dawn."

Jade Kimura has been my human shield since prep school, and today is no exception. She takes one look at the tension crystallizing between my mother and me and immediately goes into crisis management mode.

"Mrs. B, you look absolutely stunning. Is that the new Chanel collection?" Jade doesn't wait for an answer, already steering my mother toward the door. "The photographer wants to get some shots of you in the main suite. Something about the morning light being divine."

My mother allows herself to be redirected, but not before squeezing my shoulder. "Stop looking like you're going to your execution, darling. You're a Beaumont. We don't show weakness."

The door closes behind her with a soft click that sounds like a prison cell locking. Jade whirls on me immediately, her expression shifting from perky bridesmaid to interrogator.

"Okay, spill. And don't give me that 'I'm fine' bullshit you've been peddling all week." She shoves a green juice into my hands. "You look like you're about to vomit, and I know it's not from the coffee."

"I'm pregnant."

The words tumble from my lips, hanging in the air between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. Jade's mouth opens and closes several times, reminding me absurdly of the koi fish in my parents' garden pond.

"You're... but how... when did..." She sinks onto the velvet ottoman, rollers tilting precariously. "Please tell me it's Vincent's."

My silence speaks volumes. Jade's eyes widen to Disney princess proportions.

"Simone Elise Beaumont, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything. Or rather, I did, but I thought..." I set down the juice and wrap my arms around my middle, the gesture both protective and self-soothing. "Remember the Hope Foundation fundraiser six weeks ago? The one where I gave that speech about arts education?"

"The one where you got plastered on champagne and disappeared for two hours?" Jade's voice pitches higher. "Oh my God, you didn't."

"I was upset about the Times review. They called my final performance 'technically proficient but emotionally vacant.'" The words still sting, even now. "And Vincent was being Vincent, talking to Senator Hammond about tax breaks while I was bleeding my heart out on that stage."

The memory rushes back in vivid technicolor. The ballroom at the Hay-Adams, glittering with D.C.'s elite. My knee throbbing beneath my gown, a constant reminder of everything I'd lost. Vincent's hand on my back, possessive rather than comforting, as he steered me from one political conversation to another.

"So you found comfort in someone else's arms." Jade's tone is gentler now, understanding. "Who was it?"

"That's the thing—I thought it was Vincent." I move to the window, watching the early morning traffic navigate Madison Avenue. "He found me on the terrace, crying into my champagne. He smelled like Vincent, same cologne, same expensive whiskey on his breath. The lights were low, and I was so drunk, and he held me while I sobbed about my knee, about the review, about everything."

"And one thing led to another." Jade joins me at the window, her reflection worried in the glass. "But if it smelled like Vincent and felt like Vincent..."

"Vincent hasn't touched me in three months." The admission tastes bitter. "We've been playing the perfect couple for the cameras, but behind closed doors? He treats me like a business acquisition he's having second thoughts about."

My phone buzzes on the vanity, Vincent's name flashing across the screen. Finally. I snatch it up, hope and dread warring in my chest.

Flight delayed. Start without me if needed.

"That motherfu—" Jade catches herself, remembering we're in a bridal suite, not a locker room. "He's not coming, is he?"

"Of course he's coming." The lie tastes like ash. "His flight is just delayed."

Jade takes the phone from my numb fingers, scrolling through our text history with the focus of a forensic accountant. "Simone, his last real message to you was Wednesday. Everything since then has been about logistics."

"He's busy. The campaign—"

"Is bullshit, and you know it." She grabs my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes. "You don't have to do this. We can walk out right now. I'll call my driver, we'll go to my place, order Thai food, and figure out next steps."

"And tell five hundred guests what, exactly? That the bride got cold feet?" I pull away, reaching for my clutch. The pregnancy test seems to pulse beneath the silk lining like a telltale heart. "My parents have invested everything in this merger. Beaumont Industries needs the Douglas political connections to survive the new regulations. I can't be the reason we lose everything."

"Your family's company is not worth your happiness."

"It's worth twenty thousand jobs." I square my shoulders, muscle memory from a thousand performances taking over. "I'm a Beaumont. We don't run."

The makeup artist chooses that moment to arrive, wheeling in enough cosmetics to paint a small army. She's a tiny woman with enormous glasses and the focused intensity of a neurosurgeon.

"Ms. Beaumont! Oh, you're already glowing!" She starts unpacking her arsenal, chattering about undertones and color theory. "That rich brown skin! Like burnished copper in this light. We'll do golden bronze on the eyes to make that hazel pop, and a nude-berry lip to complement your complexion perfectly."

I submit to her ministrations, letting the familiar rhythm of preparation wash over me. Foundation to hide the exhaustion. Concealer for the dark circles that have become my constant companions. Blush to simulate the glow of a happy bride. This is just another performance, I tell myself. Act One: The Wedding. Act Two: The Marriage. Act Three: The Divorce, eventually, once the families have gotten what they need.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Vincent: Wear the diamonds, not the pearls.

Even from across an ocean, he's still directing my performance. I want to throw the phone across the room, watch it shatter into as many pieces as my composure. Instead, I type back: Of course.

"Speaking of diamonds." Jade produces a blue Tiffany box from her bridesmaid emergency kit. "Your something borrowed."

Inside, nestled in white satin, are the most exquisite diamond earrings I've ever seen. Art deco geometry meets modern elegance, each stone catching the light like captured stars.

"Jade, I can't. These must have cost—"

"They're on loan, drama queen. Margot Rothschild owed me a favor after I fixed her tax nightmare last year." She fastens them carefully, her touch gentle. "Besides, if you're going to marry a man who may or may not show up to his own wedding, you should at least look like a million bucks doing it."

"Billion," the makeup artist corrects without looking up from her palette. "Those earrings are worth 1.2 billion. I did Margot's makeup for the Met Gala."

We lapse into silence as she works her magic, transforming me from exhausted pregnant woman into radiant bride. The morning sun climbs higher, painting golden stripes across the suite's Persian rug. Forty-three minutes until I become Mrs. Vincent Douglas.

"All done!" The makeup artist steps back, admiring her handiwork. "You look absolutely perfect. That Vincent Douglas is a lucky man."

"The luckiest," I agree, practicing my camera-ready smile.

She packs up and leaves with promises to touch up before the ceremony. The moment the door closes, my mother returns, this time with reinforcements. The hairstylist, the photographer, the wedding planner, and my cousin Amelia, who's serving as another bridesmaid, all crowd into the suite.

"Thirty-eight minutes!" The wedding planner, a severe woman named Meredith who runs weddings like military operations, consults her iPad. "Hair needs to be started immediately. Where's the dress? Has anyone heard from the groom's party?"

"Vincent's flight was delayed," my mother says smoothly, the lie rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. "He'll meet us at the cathedral."

Amelia raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She knows as well as I do that Vincent's private jet doesn't get delayed. It leaves when Vincent wants it to leave.

The hairstylist begins the elaborate process of sculpting my hair into submission. Pin by pin, my 3C curls are tamed into an elegant chignon, the natural coils that I spent years learning to love now stretched and smoothed into submission. My fingers itch to touch the baby hairs at my nape, the ones my grandmother used to say were "kitchen hair" before pressing them down with edge control. Today, they're laid perfectly, framing my face in delicate swirls. My grandmother's sapphire hair comb—my something blue—is nestled into the style like a secret.

"Has anyone checked the weather?" Meredith types furiously on her iPad. "The forecast showed possible rain, and if we need to adjust the photography timeline—"

"The weather will hold." My mother's tone brooks no argument, as if she can command the elements themselves. "Simone, you haven't eaten anything. At least have a croissant."

"I'm not hungry."

"You should have some nourishment. You're already too thin." She picks up a croissant, breaking off a piece. "The dress was fitted when you had more curves."

"Mother." The warning in my voice is clear.

She subsides, but I can see the worry in the tightness around her eyes. Genevieve Beaumont didn't build an empire by missing details, and she's noticed everything—the weight loss, the dark circles, the way I keep pressing my hand to my stomach when I think no one's looking.

"Twenty-eight minutes!" Meredith announces. "Time for the dress!"

The Vera Wang creation hangs on the back of the door like a cloud made of silk and dreams. Twelve pounds of French lace and hand-sewn crystals, with a cathedral train that will sweep behind me like a promise. Or a lie, depending on how you look at it.

Jade and Amelia help me step into the gown, careful not to disturb my hair or makeup. The bodice fits differently than it did at my final fitting two weeks ago. Where it once hugged my curves perfectly, now it gaps slightly at the breast and waist. But when Amelia begins lacing the corset back, the structured boning does its job, creating the illusion of the body I had before stress and morning sickness took their toll.

"Breathe in," Amelia instructs, pulling the ribbons tighter.

I obey, feeling my ribs compress, my already tender breasts pushed up and out. The dress is beautiful, a work of art, but it feels like armor. Or a straightjacket.

"Perfect!" Meredith circles me like a general inspecting troops. "Now, where are those Jimmy Choos?"

The shoes appear as if by magic, nude patent leather with red soles that will flash like drops of blood when I walk. A prima ballerina's feet are never pretty, and mine are no exception. Years of pointe work have left them scarred and misshapen, but the shoes are cut to hide the damage.

"Eighteen minutes!"

My phone buzzes. This time it's not Vincent.

Unknown Number: Check your email. -V

Dread freezes my veins. Jade notices my face and snatches the phone before I can delete the message.

"What does that mean? Check what email?"

"I don't know." But I do. Something in my gut, that same instinct that used to tell me when a lift was about to go wrong, screams danger.

"Ladies, we need to move to the cars!" Meredith is already herding the bridesmaids toward the door. "The photographer needs shots of Simone with her parents before we leave for the cathedral."

"Give me one minute," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "I just need to... center myself."

My mother nods approvingly. She understands pre-performance rituals. The room empties except for Jade, who stubbornly remains.

"Show me the email," she demands.

With trembling fingers, I open my email app. There at the top, sent two minutes ago from Vincent's account, is a video file. The subject line reads: "Play this at the altar."

"Don't." Jade tries to grab the phone, but I'm already clicking play.

Vincent's face fills the screen. He's on a beach somewhere tropical, wearing linen pants and nothing else, a mojito in his hand. The sun setting behind him paints everything in shades of gold and betrayal.

"Hello, everyone. I know you're all gathered at St. Patrick's expecting a beautiful wedding, and I'm sorry to disappoint." He takes a long sip of his drink, savoring the moment. "But I can't in good conscience marry Simone Beaumont when she's carrying another man's bastard."

The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering on the marble floor. But Vincent's voice continues, tinny and cruel from the speakers.

"Yes, you heard that correctly. My beautiful bride is pregnant, and it's not mine. Hasn't been touching me in months, but apparently, she found comfort elsewhere. I won't be made a fool of, not for all the political connections in the world."

Jade scoops up the phone, her face murderous. "That absolute piece of shit. How does he even know?"

"Thirteen minutes!" Meredith's voice carries from the hallway. "Simone, we really must go!"

I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The designer dress against my brown skin creates a stunning contrast, the white making my complexion glow like polished bronze. My collarbones, prominent from years of dance, catch the light. The borrowed diamonds, the perfect makeup enhancing my features—my grandmother would have said I looked like "Black royalty," the way she always did when she was proud. All of it a costume for a show that's about to go horribly wrong. In thirteen minutes, I'll walk into that cathedral. In fourteen minutes, my world will explode.

"We're leaving." Jade grabs my clutch and bouquet, already in crisis management mode. "Right now. We'll go out the service entrance, get my car—"

"No." The word comes out stronger than I feel. "He sent that video to someone, probably his best man. If I run now, they'll play it anyway, and I'll look guilty and pathetic. At least if I'm there, I can... I don't know. Control the narrative somehow."

"Simone, you can't seriously be thinking of walking into that cathedral."

"What choice do I have?" I take the bouquet from her—white roses and baby's breath, Vincent's choice, like everything else. "Five hundred people are waiting. My parents' entire business depends on this alliance. I can't just disappear."

"Your parents wouldn't want you to—"

"To what? Humiliate myself on the altar?" A hysterical laugh bubbles up. "That's happening either way. At least this way, I face it head-on."

I march toward the door, my heels clicking against the marble like a countdown. Each step takes me closer to my public execution, but I've performed through worse. A torn ACL, a shattered ankle, a broken heart—I've danced through them all.

"Eight minutes!" Meredith practically vibrates with anxiety as we emerge. "The cars are waiting. Your parents are already en route to the cathedral."

The elevator ride to the lobby passes in a blur of instructions and last-minute touch-ups. The hotel staff has cleared a path to the entrance, holding back the handful of photographers who always seem to know where to find a society bride. Camera flashes explode like fireworks as I step onto the sidewalk.

"Simone! Simone! How does it feel to be marrying into the Douglas dynasty?"

"Are the rumors true about a political run in your future?"

"What does Vincent think about your father's latest merger?"

I smile and wave, playing my part perfectly even as my world crumbles inside my chest. The classic Rolls-Royce waits at the curb, ribbons and flowers adorning its pristine white surface. The driver holds the door open, and I slide inside, careful not to crush my train.

Jade squeezes in beside me, still clutching my phone like a weapon. "There has to be something we can do. Call Vincent, threaten to expose his affairs—"

"What affairs?" I stare out the window as we pull into traffic, watching New York blur past. "Vincent doesn't have affairs. He has transactions. I should have realized I was just another one."

"Then who's the father?" Jade's voice drops to a whisper, even though the privacy partition is up. "If we knew who you actually slept with, maybe we could—"

"Could what? Announce it at the altar? 'Sorry, everyone, but I'm actually carrying some other man's baby, identity unknown?'" I press my hand to my stomach again, a protective gesture I can't seem to stop. "That would go over well."

"Three minutes!" Meredith's voice crackles through the intercom. "I'm getting word that the groom's family is asking questions."

Of course they are. Senator Douglas and his wife are probably having apoplexy right about now, wondering where their eldest son has disappeared to. Though knowing Vincent, he told his brother Blake exactly what he was planning. Those two have always been thick as thieves, despite their differences.

Blake. The thought of him makes something twist in my chest. He'll be there, standing with the groomsmen, forced to watch his brother's betrayal play out in real time. At least he's always been kind to me, in his distant, professional way. Maybe he'll make it quick, stop the video before it gets to the really humiliating parts.

The cathedral looms ahead, its Gothic spires piercing the morning sky like accusations. Photographers line the steps, a gauntlet of flashing cameras and shouted questions. This is what I trained for, I remind myself. The show must go on.

"Sixty seconds!" Meredith is practically hyperventilating. "Your father is waiting to walk you in. The processional is cued. Are you ready?"

No. I'm not ready. I'm twenty-six years old, pregnant by a stranger, about to be publicly humiliated in front of everyone who matters in this city. I'm as far from ready as it's possible to be.

"I'm ready," I say, and step out of the car into the blazing spotlight of my own destruction.