Applause still thundered through the cathedral as if it could drown the truth.
I couldn't breathe. The veil lay crumpled at my feet like shed skin, and the man before me wasn't Ethan. He wasn't gentle promises and rainy-night kisses. He was cut from darker cloth—gray eyes like a winter sea, a mouth shaped by command, shoulders straight as judgment.
Damien Raine. My new husband. My father-in-law.
No. No. No.
The priest's face blurred. Guests leaned to whisper behind perfect hands. Somewhere, a photographer laughed because the photo of the year had fallen into his lap.
Damien's fingers slid to the small of my back with an intimacy that made my skin crawl. "Smile," he murmured, lips not touching but close enough to steal heat. "The world is watching, Mrs. Raine."
Mrs. Raine.
My knees threatened to give. I forced them to lock, forced air into my lungs, forced my lips toward a shape that wasn't horror. The organ sang the recessional, joyful and oblivious. Damien guided me down the steps, past rows of eyes that drank me in. I searched for Ethan—any glimpse of his dark hair, his nervous half-smile—but all I saw were strangers and a storm in a tailored suit at my side.
Outside, the day was cruelly beautiful. The sky was a clear, merciless blue; flower petals drifted like confetti. Reporters spilled around velvet ropes, shouting questions. "Mr. Raine! Over here! Kiss your bride again!" The crowd wanted romance, and Damien understood crowds the way generals understand armies—what to feed them, when to flank.
He lifted our joined hands. Flashes exploded. His thumb moved—barely there—against my pulse, a reminder that he felt it. That he enjoyed it.
I wanted to rip my hand away. I didn't. Not here. Not with cameras hungry for weakness.
A black limousine idled at the curb, sleek as a shark. Damien steered me into its cool leather interior. The door thumped shut. Silence fell like a trap.
I jerked my hand free. "Where is Ethan?"
Damien watched me the way a hawk watches a field—patient, certain the mouse will move. "Not here."
"I was supposed to marry him." The words fractured. "How did you—how could you—"
"I don't explain myself," he said, absolute and soft. "Not to the board. Not to the market. Not to my wife."
"I'm not your—" The ring on my finger gleamed like a handcuff. I swallowed hard. "This is fraud. This is—"
"This is done." His gaze cut to the window, then back to me. "You walked down the aisle. You said the vows. You signed the register. There isn't a court in this city that will put their neck under my boot for the sake of your panic."
"I'll go to the press," I snapped, though even as I said it I saw those headlines eating me alive. "I'll tell them you tricked me."
"And I'll show them the kiss." The corner of his mouth lifted. "The one you returned."
Heat flared in my cheeks. "I didn't—"
"You shook," he said, almost amused. "Your body knows the difference between fear and fire. Learn it."
I pressed a fist to my ribs because my heart was trying to claw out. "You're a monster."
"If that helps you breathe, call me worse." He leaned back, crossing one powerful leg over the other. "But understand the rules. I don't lose. I don't return what I take. And I don't share."
"Not even with your son?" I threw back, because pain makes cowards brave.
For a heartbeat, something flickered—thin and sharp as a crack in ice. Then it vanished. "Especially not with my son."
The car flowed through the city like a shadow. I dug into my clutch with shaking hands and found my phone. No missed calls. No texts. I typed with fingers that couldn't keep steady.
Where are you? Please tell me this is a mistake. Please pick up.
Delivered.
I called him. It rang once, then dropped into dead silence. I tried again. One ring, then nothing. Like a wire being pinched by a deliberate hand.
Tears pricked hot and humiliating. I blinked them back and texted Ava—best friend, emergency contact, the person who once drove across town at 3 a.m. to kill a cockroach in my kitchen.
If I send you a tail number, can you track a private jet out of Teterboro? Long story. I'll explain later. Please.
Three dots. Then: Yes. Send anything you have. Are you safe?
No, I wrote, then deleted it, then wrote: I'm fine.
I wasn't fine.
The car glided to a stop at the reception hotel. Through the glass I saw a crush of cameras, flowers, a red carpet that suddenly looked like a blood trail. Before I could think of a way to run, a gloved hand opened my door. Damien's palm waited, unhurried.
I stared at it. The skin over his knuckles was rougher than the rest of him, a small imperfection on a man who had trimmed the world to fit. For some reason, the sight made my breath snag.
"Take it," he said, low. "Or fall."
I set my fingers on his and let him pull me out because I wouldn't give the cameras a stumble. The crowd erupted. "Mr. Raine! One more! Over here!" The chant swelled like surf.
He didn't kiss me this time. He didn't have to. He placed his hand on my waist and owned the air I breathed. We moved through the lobby, up to a private elevator, through a gauntlet of staff who bowed like reeds in the wind. A manager babbled congratulations. A florist cried because beauty does that to some people. Everything was perfectly controlled—Damien's element.
In the gilded calm of the penthouse antechamber, the door clicked shut and the noise fell away. The quiet rang.
"Tell me where he is," I said. "Tell me where Ethan is."
"No," Damien said.
"What did you do to him?"
His gaze didn't blink. "I protected my interests."
"I'm not your interests—" My voice cracked. I straightened it with both hands. "I'm a person."
"You are my wife." The words were simple. Final. "You will eat. You will smile when required. You will not say Ethan's name in my house."
Rage shot through me so fast I almost laughed. "You can buy judges. You can buy headlines. You cannot buy me."
A strange warmth touched his eyes then—approval? amusement?—and was gone. "Everything has a price."
"Then pay this," I whispered. "Let him go."
He stepped closer, and the temperature dropped ten degrees. "No."
I pressed back until the paneled wall kissed my shoulders. He stopped with half an inch of air between us, close enough that I felt the electric outline of him without a touch. "Do you want me to scream?" I asked, because the words seemed to interest him.
He studied my mouth as if calculating risks on a ticker. "Not here."
The handle turned. We both looked. A small woman in a perfect black dress slipped in, all neat edges and steady eyes. The lipstick-red folder in her hands signaled blood without spilling. "Mr. Raine," she said with a small bow. "Mara. Your schedule has been adjusted. The board sends their congratulations."
"Of course they do." He didn't look away from me. "Show my wife to the bridal lounge. She needs… a moment."
Mara's gaze flicked over my face. Something human sparked there and cooled. "This way, Mrs. Raine."
I let her lead me down a corridor that smelled of roses and money. She opened a quiet room lit by lamplight, where a couch waited like a therapist. A mirror hung over a console. A bottle of water. Tissues. I wondered how many women had fallen apart in here and how many had been gathered back up like spilled pearls.
Mara closed the door. She didn't leave.
"Do you need anything?" she asked.
"Yes." I swallowed. "The truth."
A fraction of a smile marked her mouth and vanished. "That's not on the menu."
"What is?"
"Discretion." She pinched a stray thread from my sleeve with surgical care. "And bobby pins."
A dry sound escaped me; it might have been a laugh in a different life. "Mara," I said. "Have you seen Ethan?"
"No," she said. It was honest in the way people are honest when lying would be insulting.
"My phone—"
"Is yours." She nodded at my clutch. "Mr. Raine does not need to read your messages to win."
"Then what does he need?" I whispered.
Her eyes, dark and steady, met mine in the mirror. "Time."
She slipped out before I could ask more.
I grabbed my phone. Messages. Nothing from Ethan. A text from Ava with a screenshot of a flight tracker: Private departure—Teterboro—destination blocked—40 minutes ago. My heart stuttered. Tail number? I typed.
Masked, Ava shot back. But rumor blogs think it's Raine. There's buzz about a "family emergency."
Family emergency. I stared at the words until they blurred.
I typed: If they moved him, where?
Raine has a clinic in Toronto, and a townhouse in Montreal under a shell company. I can't do more without getting fired. Are you safe?
I typed a lie. Yes.
The door opened again. Damien filled the frame, tux jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened a fraction. He belonged in every doorway; the house bent around him.
"Come," he said. "Smile. Eat. Pretend."
I didn't move. "Say his name."
Silence breathed between us. He stepped inside and shut the door with a soft, final click.
"I told you your rules," he said. "I am giving you a chance to learn them the easy way."
"And if I don't?"
His gaze lingered on my mouth, my throat, my clenched hands. "Then I will teach you the hard way."
My lungs forgot their job. "Is this where you threaten me?"
"No," he said, and the softness in his voice was colder than any threat. "This is where I promise you that fighting me will cost you more than you can imagine."
"Then imagine this," I said, because if I didn't push I would drown. "I walk out there and tell the world what you did."
"And I walk out there and tell them who you are," he said. "A girl who loved my son's money more than his spine."
I slapped him.
The sound cracked like a shot in the small room. My hand stung; his cheek turned the faintest shade darker.
We stared at each other. Somewhere far away, a string quartet learned a new song.
Slowly, he took my wrist. Not hard. Not gentle. "Good," he murmured. "You want to play a game you can't win. That makes this interesting."
"Let go."
He did. Immediately. And somehow that felt more dangerous.
"We're late," he said. "I won't be kept waiting in my own house. Not by the board. Not by the market." His eyes held mine. "Not by my wife."
Husband. Wife. Words like nails. He opened the door and didn't look back to see if I followed. He knew I would.
The reception was a museum of money. Glass walls poured the city into the room; chandelier light kissed gold place settings. People rose as we entered. People always rose for Damien.
He guided me to the head table, where my name gleamed on a card beside his. I forced a sip of water, hands shaking. The crowd's curiosity wore perfume. Laughter brightened when he laughed. It died when he didn't. I sat in his weather.
A server bent to pour wine. Damien covered my glass with two fingers. "Water," he said, like a man ordering a new harbor. The server fled and returned with a crystal bottle as if the building might burn otherwise.
"Control tastes bitter," I muttered.
"It tastes like survival," he said.
Across the room, a woman glittered in black sequins like a dangerous current—Veronica Stone. I'd seen her on business blogs, on gossip sites, on Ethan's phone once when an article about power couples had annoyed him. She caught my eye and smiled slowly, a cat who knew where the warm engine was. She lifted her glass to me like a toast and then to Damien like a claim.
My phone vibrated under the table. I glanced down.
Unknown Number: Don't look up. Don't react. If you want Ethan, come alone. Northfield Private—Hangar 7—midnight. No security.
My breath stopped.
I read it twice. Three times. The blood rushed in my ears. I lifted my chin a fraction and found Damien watching me. Of course he was. He watched the wind.
"Problem?" he asked.
"None," I lied.
He leaned in. His breath brushed my ear. "Your tells are cute when they're small. Fix them."
"Or what?" I whispered.
"Or I fix them."
The toasts began. The CFO droned about synergy. Someone joked about my surprise taste in husbands; the table laughed. I laughed too, because if I didn't my throat would close. Under the linen, my thumb typed with surgical slowness.
Who is this? Prove you have him.
A minute. Two. Bread plates clinked. Waiters flowed. Damien's hand—casual, proprietary—rested on the back of my chair.
My phone buzzed again. A picture filled the screen—grainy, low light, chain-link shadow striping a private hangar door. The stenciled 7 loomed. Two men stood near a jet's open stair. One with his head bowed, shoulders familiar enough to make my bones ache. The other tall and still as a loaded gun.
Unknown Number: He didn't run. He was taken. Come alone.
My fingers went cold. The room spun and righted. I swallowed, then placed my napkin on the table with steady hands because if I shook now, Damien would take that too.
"I need the restroom," I said lightly.
"Take Mara," he said without looking away from the chairman.
"I'll be fine."
"Take Mara."
Her shadow detached from a wall like she'd been waiting to be named. "Mrs. Raine," she murmured.
We left on a tide of polite nods. In the corridor, the music dimmed; the hum of the city grew teeth. I didn't head for the restroom. I headed for an emergency stairwell with a green sign that promised exits. Mara didn't stop me. She only said, "You have ten minutes before Cole notices."
"Cole?"
"Head of security." She checked her watch. "Nine."
"You're helping me," I said. "Why?"
"Because I like to put out fires before they burn the house I work in," she said. "Eight."
I didn't thank her. I ran.
Stairs bit through my thin soles. I burst into a loading bay that smelled like coffee and diesel. A service elevator yawned open; a catering truck idled. I slid between crates, slipped out a side door, and gulped night.
The city breathed different outside the velvet ropes. Street noise hammered. A cab hesitated at my raised hand—then saw the dress and resigned itself. I slid in and slammed the door.
"Northfield Private," I said. "The tarmac. Fast."
The driver frowned at the mirror, then shrugged. "Big night, huh?" He punched the meter. "You got it."
My phone lit again. Unknown Number: If anyone is with you, don't come.
I typed, I'm alone.
From the window, the hotel's glass walls glowed like a fabulous lie. For a heartbeat I saw Damien in my mind where he had been moments ago: the way a room shaped itself around his moods; the way power looked at me like it had chosen. My chest squeezed so tight I couldn't tell if it was terror or airlessness or something worse.
A vibration rattled across my palm. Ava, again.
Where are you? Tell me you're not doing something insane.
I'm getting Ethan back, I wrote.
Alina—
If I don't text in an hour, send this to the police. I forwarded the hangar photo before I could talk myself out of it. And don't call me.
I dropped the phone into my clutch and held it like a pulse.
The driver hummed tunelessly. The city peeled away into industrial edges. A fence rose ahead topped with coils of silver wire. Signs warned in red. Beyond them, a row of hangars hunched, anonymous except for painted numbers that gleamed under stark floodlights.
"Here we are," the driver said. "You sure this is—"
"Yes." I shoved a handful of bills forward. "Thank you."
He squinted. "You okay, miss?"
I smiled in the way women do when they have ten seconds to choose their future. "I'm getting married," I said. "Again."
I slid out before he could ask what that meant. The air tasted like metal and night. My heels clicked on asphalt. Hangar 7 loomed ahead, the door a half-open mouth. A figure peeled from shadow near the fence and lifted a hand in a small, urgent wave.
I didn't run. I didn't call out. I walked until the floodlight washed me white and the figure's face stepped into clarity.
Not Ethan.
A stranger in a service jacket, eyes wide and scared. He held up a phone—the same photo I'd been sent—and said in a voice that broke on the edges, "He told me to find you."
My heart slammed my ribs. "Where is he?"
"Inside," he said, flicking a glance toward the hangar. "But you have to hurry. They're moving him at midnight."
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
"To do what you already did," a voice answered from behind me—smooth, warm, and absolute. "Come alone."
I turned.
Damien stepped out of the dark like the night had decided to dress itself as a man.
His gaze slid over the dress, the clutch, the stubborn line of my chin. A faint, unreadable smile touched his mouth.
"Did you really think," he asked softly, "that I wouldn't notice when my wife tried to run?"
The floodlights hummed. The stranger's breath came too fast. Overhead, a jet engine whined to life, hungry.
I tightened my grip on the clutch until it hurt. "Then stop me," I said.
"I intend to," he replied.
And somewhere inside the hangar, a door clanged open and a voice I knew better than my own shouted my name.