In the blink of an eye, a week had passed since Beauty returned to paris.
She was hunched over her desk, scrutinizing design drafts for a wedding dress that was nearing completion.
Excitement bubbled within her—until her phone buzzed with a message.
She glanced down, pausing her work.
Mrs. Anthony? What could she possibly want?
Beauty's delicate brows furrowed.
Given that the Anthony family—specifically Nathalie and her mother—were likely behind the recent attempt on her life, she held little goodwill toward the matriarch.
Setting the phone aside on the couch, she returned to refining the intricate details of the gown.
Every stitch, every embellishment had been meticulously crafted by her own hands, poured into this singular vision of the perfect wedding dress.
Then her phone buzzed again.
Another message.
This time, her fingers slackened, and the pencil slipped from her grip.
Outside, a desolate storm raged.
