The saffron foam had barely congealed on my plate when Grandma Drevane snapped her poodle-cane against the floor. "Enough frivolity. The wedding."
Wedding? I nearly choked on my scallop. We just met. I'm wearing a wig made of lies and bleach fumes.
Victor Drevane tapped his spoon—the signal for execution, not dessert—and a servant materialized with a leather-bound portfolio. As if I weren't sitting there, breathing, bleeding.
"Three days," Grandma declared, slapping a finger on the table. "The Founder's Moon rises Thursday. Tradition demands it."
Three days. The number hit me like a physical blow. Who marries in three days? Not royalty. Not even desperate socialites. This isn't a wedding. It's an extraction.
Julian leaned back, swirling wine like he'd won the lottery. "The Monaco Yacht Club is booked. White roses, champagne towers, the whole blonde fantasy." He winked at me. "You'll wear the Drevane tiara, of course. Heavy little thing. Snaps necks if you're not careful."
Not careful. I forced Selene's vacant smile. Try "not a real Veyron."
Eleanor Drevane slid a tablet toward me—my place, my life, my silence demanded—displaying a gown: ivory silk, backless, dripping in pearls. "Your measurements arrived this morning. Fit is non-negotiable."
My measurements? My blood turned to ice. Marcella sent them before I even bleached my hair. I traced the neckline with a trembling finger. This isn't a dress. It's a straitjacket.
Clarisse, the ghost-wife, suddenly spoke—soft as a sigh. "The veil should be Chantilly lace. Not tulle." She didn't look up from her untouched plate. "Tulle wrinkles. Lace hides things."
Julian snorted. "Since when do you care, chérie?"
Clarisse's ink-stained pinky tapped her fork. "Always," her silence screamed.
Grandma's monocle swiveled toward me. "You'll stand at Cassian's left. Smile when prompted. Don't speak." She snapped the portfolio shut. "The prenup is signed. The blood tests are clear. All that remains is for you to disappear into the role."
Disappear. The word echoed in my skull. They don't want a bride. They want a mannequin who bleeds on cue.
I studied the family—their sharp eyes, their practiced indifference—and my librarian's mind began cataloging anomalies:
• Why the rush? No dynasty marries in 72 hours unless they're racing a deadline. Or a scandal.
• Why no input from me? Even Selene would've demanded input on her own wedding.
• Why the Founder's Moon? A Drevane "tradition" Cassian never mentioned. Conveniently obscure.
My gaze snagged on Victor Drevane's tablet. As he scrolled, the screen glowed: DREVANE TRUST AMENDMENT – EFFECTIVE 72 HRS.
There it is. I froze, scallop forgotten. The trust expires in three days. This wedding isn't about legacy—it's a financial settlement.
I risked a glance at Cassian. He hadn't touched his food. Wasn't watching the planning chaos. He was watching me—storm-gray eyes tracking every flicker of realization on my face. He knows I see it.
Julian clapped his hands. "Flowers by Wednesday. Venue by Thursday. And you—" he pointed at me, "—better not faint in that gown. The shareholders are flying in."
Shareholders? I nearly laughed. This isn't a wedding. It's a hostile takeover.
Clarisse slid a folded napkin toward my plate. Swan-shaped, like before. But this time, it wasn't pristine. One wing was torn.
She's warning me, I realized. The swan is broken.
Then Cassian spoke—low, lethal, cutting through the planning frenzy. "The date stands." He didn't look at the family. He looked at me. "But the gown changes."
Silence. Thick as the truffle foam.
Julian sputtered. "The what? Father, the trust—"
"The trust," Cassian interrupted, "is my concern." He pushed back from the table, chair scraping like a death knell. "She'll wear black."
Black? My breath caught. Blondes don't wear black.
Grandma's monocle shattered in her grip. "Absurd! The Drevane bride wears ivory!"
Cassian didn't flinch. "Then find another blonde." He turned to me, and for the first time, his voice held something raw. "This one wears black."
As he strode from the room, the family erupted—Victor's furious whispers, Julian's choked laughter, Grandma's cane slamming the floor. But I barely heard them.
Because in Cassian's wake, he'd left something on my chair.
A single sheet of paper.
Three days. Not for a wedding.
For a war.