The Riviera villa wasn't a sanctuary. It was a gilded trap.
Cassian's driver deposited me at the entrance—a fortress of white stucco and arched windows overlooking the Orada Sea—and vanished without a word. No husband. No welcome. Just silence and the scent of jasmine thick enough to choke on. I dragged my suitcase up the steps, the wheels catching on cobblestones like my own stumbling heart. One hour, Grandma's voice echoed in my skull. Be packed. The clock is ticking.
Inside, the villa breathed luxury like a living thing. Marble floors gleamed under vaulted ceilings, French doors framed the sea like a painting, and the air smelled of lemon polish and something colder—expectation. But it was the absence that terrified me most. No staff. No Cassian. Just the hollow click of my suitcase wheels and the deafening thud of my pulse in my ears.
What am I more afraid of? The question coiled in my chest as I stood in the cavernous foyer.
• Cassian discovering I'm not Selene? One wrong word, one slip of French, and Mama's library vanishes.
• The wedding night? His cold kiss at the altar replayed in my mind—not a promise, but a claim.
• Grandma's deadline? "The trust amendment expires Tuesday." Her monocle had flashed like a blade. "Healthy brides conceive faster when occupied."
I chose fear of the unknown. Because the known? It was already here.
The Unpacking (A.K.A. How to Survive Alone)
I refused to call for help. Let them think Selene is helpless, I thought, dragging the suitcase toward the master suite. Amara Veyron needs no one.
The bedroom was a shrine to everything I wasn't. Ivory silk curtains, a bed draped in lace, a vanity crowded with Selene's perfumes—vanilla and poison. I emptied the suitcase with stiff fingers, folding borrowed gowns into drawers that smelled of cedar and lies. Selene's nightgown—a slip of scandalous lace—lay on top. I shoved it beneath the mattress. Let the ghosts wear it.
Then I saw it.
On the pillow: a single white rose, its petals trembling. No note. No meaning. Just a flower that felt like a verdict. He's been here, I realized, ice flooding my veins. He chose this room. He left this rose. My fingers brushed the petals—cold, dewy, perfect—and I snatched my hand back. Don't touch his offerings. Don't let him own your breath.
The Bath (A.K.A. How to Wash Away a Lie)
The bathroom was a cathedral of marble and steam. I turned the taps until the room filled with scalding water, the sound a roar to drown out the silence. Scrub clean, I ordered myself, peeling off Selene's ivory day dress. Scrub until the wig's chemicals burn away. Until the scar on your wrist stops burning.
I stepped into the shower, letting the water hit like a fist. The wig came first—a lie I'd worn for twenty-four hours—tossed onto the tile like a dead thing. Then the foundation, the powder, the mask Marcella had painted on my face. Bleach-stained roots bled into the drain: dark as midnight, ashy gold, a map of every betrayal.
I scrubbed until my skin glowed raw. This is for Mama, I thought, lathering soap over the scar on my wrist—the thin silver line from restoring manuscripts with her. "This pain? It's the ink of your story," she'd whispered. Now it's the ink of my cage. The water ran pink—blood or bleach, I couldn't tell—and I didn't stop. Wash away the vows. Wash away the smiles. Wash away the girl who sold her soul for a library.
But the water couldn't reach the fear.
What if he comes now? The thought slammed into me. What if he walks in and sees the wig on the floor? Sees the roots? I pressed my forehead against the cold tile, gasping. He'll rip the library from me. He'll make Marcella sell every book, page by page.
I stayed under the water until my knees shook.
The Performance (A.K.A. How to Fake Peace)
I emerged wrapped in a towel, steam clinging to my skin like a second shadow. The suite was still empty. Too empty. I dressed slowly in the one nightgown I hadn't buried—the plain cotton one, soft as a secret. Not Selene's lace. Not Cassian's fantasy. Just Amara, trembling.
I smoothed the bed, fluffing pillows with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Make it look lived-in. Make it look like a bride expects her groom. The white rose lay where I'd left it on the pillow. I didn't move it. Let him see I touched it. Let him think I'm waiting.
Then I killed the lights.
Moonlight spilled through the French doors, painting silver stripes across the floor. I slid into bed, the sheets cool against my damp skin. Breathe slow. Chest rise. Chest fall. Like sleep. I closed my eyes, but kept my body loose—a careful slump, one arm flung over the pillow. The performance of rest. The art of stillness.
Outside, the Orada Sea whispered against the cliffs. Not the Mediterranean, I reminded myself. No Monaco harbor. No Papa's shoulders. Just this.
The Prayer (A.K.A. How to Bargain with the Dark)
Please, I begged the silence. Not tonight. Not yet.
I didn't pray to God. I prayed to the scar on my wrist. To Mama's hands guiding mine over vellum. To the library's dust motes dancing in sunlight.
Let him stay away, I pleaded, fingers twisting the cotton sheet. Let him work late. Let him drink himself numb. Let Grandma's trust amendment burn before he crosses this threshold.
I thought of Cassian's storm-gray eyes at the altar—not on the wig, not on the gown. On me. The way his thumb had traced circles on my lower back during the reception. Not possessive. Not gentle. A silent threat: You belong to me now.
What if he knows? The thought slithered in. What if he's testing me? Waiting for me to crack?
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter. Mama, if you're listening—if your spirit lives in those books—help me. Help me hold this lie until Tuesday. Until the trust is safe. Until the library is untouchable.
I remembered her voice, warm as honey: "Real power isn't in palaces, ma chérie. It's in knowing who you are when no one's watching."
But who am I now?
The quiet librarian?
The proxy bride?
The girl who bleached her soul to save a library?
Please, I begged again. Let him stay away. Let me keep this one night. Let me be Amara for six more hours.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
My breath hitched. Too loud. I forced it slow—in, out, in, out—the rhythm of sleep. Footsteps. Pausing outside the door. The knob turning with agonizing slowness.
Don't come in. Don't come in. Don't—
The door opened. A sliver of light cut across the floor. I didn't move. Didn't breathe. The performance of rest. The art of stillness.
Silence stretched. Thick. Heavy.
Then the light vanished. The door clicked shut.
He's gone. Relief flooded me, so sharp it felt like pain. He didn't come in.
But the terror didn't lift. Because now I knew:
• He could come in anytime.
• He would come in eventually.
• And when he did, I'd have to choose:
Keep the library safe.
Or keep myself whole.
I lay frozen in the dark, the white rose's ghostly scent clinging to the air. One night, I thought, tears burning behind closed eyelids. Just one night where I'm not her.
The Orada Sea roared below, indifferent.
And in the suffocating quiet, I whispered the only prayer left:
"Please, Cassian Drevane…
Don't come to this room tonight."