Black suit over a black waistcoat with tiny white stripes, a loose tie, a white shirt with the top three buttons undone, a leather wristwatch strapped to his wrist. A towering height and the most shimmering set of golden eyes Daphne had ever seen.
His blond hair was parted at the centre and ruffled, as if his hand had run through it a few times. When Daphne realized she had been gawking, she cleared her throat and forced herself to compose.
"Daphne Whitmore." she said.
He cocked an eyebrow, leaning back in the chair by his mahogany desk. "And am I supposed to know who that is?"
Daphne frowned. He didn't even know his own fiancée?
"The daughter of the man you murdered last night," Daphne said, fighting the urge to climb over the desk and stab him in the eye.
He was exactly as written and sketched: arrogant, ruthless, a piece of work who deserved nothing but cruel death.
Grant Castiglione sat up, propping his elbow on the desk; his golden gaze pinned her.
She swallowed, forcing herself to hold his stare.
"Daphne…?" he drawled, dragging her name like a prayer. "You look…different from the last time we met."
"How so?" she managed.
"What do you want?" he asked, ignoring her question as he grabbed a hardcover from the desk and skimmed it.
"Mother requested I relay a gift," Daphne said, extending the small box her mother had given her.
He frowned at it. "I don't accept gifts from strangers," he dismissed.
"Strangers?" Daphne scoffed. Grant looked up, startled. "What was that?" he asked, a small frown knitting his forehead.
"You really need to get over yourself. You're not all that. All you've got is good looks and some stupid position. Stop viewing everyone as beneath you. Get a life, you miserable satan!"
She'd said it before she realized what she'd done. Grant stared at her, assessing her like a piece of art.
"Have you lost your mind?" he whispered, low enough for her to hear.
She knew she had, but those words had been on the tip of her tongue since the moment she'd walked into the library.
She stepped forward, set the funeral invitation on his desk, and snapped, "Here — the burial invitation for the man you killed, like the self-centred animal you are. Attend it…" she glared at him, icy resolve in her eyes, "or don't."
She began to leave, hesitated at the door, then spun back. "By the way, I'm in my right mind because if I weren't, I'd cut the crap and pluck out those eyes with this ballpen. Count yourself lucky I'm sane."
Then she left, the door left ajar, Grant frozen behind the desk.
Okay. If he kills me, that should mean I go back to my world, she thought as she escorted herself out of his mansion.
Maybe this is the part where he kills his fiancée — which would explain why she's never mentioned later in the story. Fine. It was fun while it lasted; time to go back to the real world, she told herself as she climbed into the carriage.
"He accepted it and sends his gratitude," Daphne told her mother, who she later learned was truly her stepmother, Isola, when asked.
"And the invitation?" Isola pressed, hope tinting her tone.
Daphne nodded quickly, swallowing. She would be in trouble when Isola discovered she'd lied and that he had refused the gift, and that Daphne had verbally blasted him. Hopefully she would return to the real world before that happened.
---
"And by the power bestowed in me, we lay Theo Whitmore to a beautiful rest…"
Daphne stared into space, paying no attention to the funeral host. Her mind buzzed with questions. There hadn't been a burial at the start of the book, so what episode was she in? Maybe she left at the end of Episode One. She sighed and tilted her head back. Maybe she was just an unmentioned character. Maybe she died at the end of Episode One...
"Oh my goodness, Your Grace," a muffled voice said, pulling her attention. She turned slowly and felt her eyes widen as they settled on Grant in all his glory.
Guests gathered around him with bows and smiles, but he ignored them all, scanning the room as if searching for someone. His forehead creased. When his gaze landed on Daphne, it settled there.
She was taken aback as he approached, his black-and-gold attire lending him an impossible aura. He slipped into the seat beside her as though it were nothing; his scent — musk and rain — brushed her face. She tried not to inhale, clutching her charcoal-black gown and focusing on the funeral host.
A few minutes later, after various guests had given speeches about Theo Whitmore (all excluding Daphne for which she was oddly grateful; what could she have said about a man she'd met twenty-four hours ago?), Grant returned to her side. They hadn't exchanged words, but the tension was evident.
He leaned in, his lips near her ear. "My ride's at the back of the building. Meet me there in five. Don't be late."
Then he walked away.
As soon as he was gone, Isola moved to Daphne's side. "I never thought you'd be so useful. Look at him sticking by your side and causing whispers. Now people will realize you are his soon-to-be wife. Good job."
Daphne forced a smile.
"By the way, what exactly did you tell him? I was shocked when he told me he came because of you."
Daphne swallowed. "Well, I—encouraged him."
…and then cursed at him, called him satan, and threatened to pluck his eyes out.
"I'm doomed," she muttered.