CHAPTER 1: THE WEDDING EVE
Isla Prescott stares at herself in the mirror, feeling like a stranger in her own skin.
The white dress is beautiful. It fits her perfectly, soft and elegant, everything a bride is supposed to be. The lace hugs her waist. The fabric falls around her feet like water. The woman looking back at her could be someone important. Someone worthy. Someone who deserves the life waiting for her tomorrow.
But she does not feel beautiful.
She feels invisible.
Her fingers brush the edge of the mirror, tracing the reflection that does not quite feel like hers. The face looking back is the same one she has had for twenty-three years. Same brown hair falling past her shoulders. Same blue eyes that have learned to look down instead of meeting anyone's gaze. Same small mouth that has forgotten how to smile without being told to.
But the dress changes everything. It is supposed to change everything.
She just does not know why she still feels like the same girl who hides in her room. The same girl who eats dinner alone while voices echo from the dining room. The same girl who has spent her whole life learning to be small so she does not get in anyone's way.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
The maids have already left, their job done, not sparing her a second glance. They zipped the dress, adjusted the hem, fluffed the veil. And then they walked out without a word. No congratulations. No smile. No goodbye.
It is always like this. People come, do what they need, and leave like she does not matter. Like she is furniture. Like she is air.
Isla lowers her eyes.
Her throat feels tight. She swallows, but the lump does not go away. She blinks, but the sting behind her eyes does not fade.
She has cried so many times in this room. Alone. Quiet. The way she learned to do everything.
But tonight is supposed to be different.
"Tomorrow will be different," she whispers.
The words hang in the air, thin and fragile. She is not sure if she believes them. But she needs to say them. Needs to hear them. Needs to hold onto something.
Tomorrow, she leaves this house.
Tomorrow, she will finally belong somewhere.
Her lips curve slightly at the thought of Braxton. Her chest warms a little. Her shoulders relax.
Braxton.
The name feels like a hand reaching out to her in the dark. He is the only person who has ever made her feel chosen. The only one who looks at her like she is enough. When he holds her hand, she does not feel like she is taking up too much space. When he smiles at her, she does not feel like a burden.
He proposed to her on a rooftop six months ago. The city was spread out below them, all lights and noise and life. He got down on one knee and said she was the best thing that ever happened to him.
She cried for an hour.
He laughed and wiped her tears and held her so tight she thought she might break from the warmth of it.
She believed him.
She still believes him.
At least, she thinks she does.
She reaches for her phone on the dressing table and checks it again.
Nothing.
No messages. No missed calls. No notifications.
Her chest tightens.
She called him earlier. Right after the maids left. It went to voicemail. She called him again while she was fixing her hair. Voicemail. She called him before dinner, just to hear his voice. Voicemail.
That was three calls.
Then four.
Then five.
She bites her lip. Her thumb hovers over his name on the screen. Braxton Parker. The name that has been her anchor for two years. The name she will take tomorrow.
She presses the call button.
The phone rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
She watches the screen, her heart beating in rhythm with each ring. Answer. Please answer. Just tell me you are busy. Just tell me everything is fine.
Five.
Six.
The ringing stops.
Voicemail.
She lowers the phone slowly, her hand dropping to her side. The room feels colder. The dress feels heavier. The silence presses against her ears like water.
Something is wrong.
She shakes her head quickly, forcing the thought away. No. Nothing is wrong. She is being ridiculous. She is standing alone in a room that has always made her feel small, and her mind is doing what it always does—looking for the crack, waiting for the fall.
Braxton loves her.
He has always loved her.
Just because he missed a few calls does not mean anything is wrong.
He is probably talking to the caterers. Or his groomsmen. Or his mother, who has called him seventeen times in the last two days about seating arrangements and flower colors and whether the salmon should be grilled or baked.
Yes. That is it.
She forces herself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
She sets the phone down on the dressing table and turns back to the mirror. She smooths the front of her dress, running her hands over the lace, trying to focus on how beautiful it is. The way it catches the light. The way it moves when she breathes. The way it makes her look like someone who could walk down an aisle and not feel like she is pretending.
She tilts her head. Studies her reflection.
Her eyes are red. She did not notice before. The edges of her lashes are wet.
She blinks quickly. She will not cry. Not tonight. Tonight is supposed to be happy. Tomorrow is supposed to be the best day of her life.
She just needs to hold on a little longer.
A knock comes from the door.
Before she can respond, it swings open.
Sophia Prescott steps inside, and the air in the room changes immediately. It gets thinner. Colder. Harder to breathe.
Sophia is dressed perfectly, because Sophia is always dressed perfectly. Silk blouse. Tailored pants. Hair pinned up in a way that makes her look younger than her forty-seven years. Her makeup is flawless. Her posture is straight. She looks like a woman who has never doubted her place in the world.
Her eyes sweep over Isla from head to toe. Slow. Deliberate. Calculating.
She stops at the dress.
Her expression does not change. Her lips press together. For a long moment, she says nothing. The silence stretches between them, familiar and heavy. Isla has spent her whole life in this silence. She knows it. She hates it. She cannot escape it.
"It fits," Sophia says finally.
Her voice is calm. Flat. Like she is stating a fact about the weather.
Isla nods. "Yes."
"Turn around."
Isla hesitates. Then she turns, her hands clasped in front of her. She can feel Sophia's eyes on her back, on the zipper, on the way the fabric falls over her shoulders.
"Hmm." Sophia walks around her slowly, her heels clicking against the floor. Each step echoes in the quiet room. "The seamstress did acceptable work. I was worried she would ruin it."
"She did well," Isla says softly.
"She did what she was paid to do." Sophia stops in front of her again. Her eyes narrow slightly. "You should be grateful, you know."
Isla's fingers tighten at her sides. "I am."
"Are you?" Sophia tilts her head. "Because you do not look grateful. You look like you are about to fall apart."
Isla blinks. Her throat works, but no words come out.
Sophia steps closer. Close enough that Isla can smell her perfume. Expensive. Sharp. Overpowering.
"Let me tell you something, Isla." Her voice drops, intimate and cold at the same time. "I have watched you for twenty-three years. Watch you hide. Watch you cry. Watching you make yourself so small that people forget you are in the room. And now you are about to marry one of the most eligible men in this city."
She pauses. Her lips curl slightly.
"Do you know what I think?"
Isla shakes her head. She cannot speak. Her voice is trapped somewhere in her chest.
"I think you do not deserve him."
The words hit Isla like a slap. Her eyes sting. Her jaw tightens.
Sophia smiles. It does not reach her eyes.
"You think love is enough," she continues. "You think being quiet and sweet and agreeable will keep a man like Braxton interested. But men like Braxton do not want quiet. They do not want to be shy. They want someone who knows how to hold their attention. Someone who knows how to keep them."
She reaches out and touches Isla's hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. Her fingers are cold.
"Luckily for you, my daughter knows exactly how to handle a man."
Isla's blood runs cold.
"What?" The word comes out barely a whisper.
Sophia's smile widens. She steps back, her eyes gleaming with something dark and satisfied.
"Nothing." She smooths her blouse. "Just some advice before your big day. Men do not like brides who are difficult. Do not keep him waiting tomorrow. Do not cry. Do not be needy. Just show up, say your vows, and try not to embarrass this family."
She turns toward the door, her heels clicking with each step.
"Sophia—" Isla's voice cracks. "What did you mean? About Alexia?"
Sophia pauses. She looks over her shoulder, her expression perfectly innocent. Exactly the way she has looked for twenty-three years while she tore Isla apart piece by piece.
"Have a good night, Isla. Tomorrow is your wedding. Try to look happy."
The door closes behind her.
Isla stands there, frozen.
Her heart is pounding. Her hands are shaking. Her mind is racing, grabbing at words, at meanings, at the look in Sophia's eyes when she said her daughter knows how to handle a man.
No.
She shakes her head. No. Sophia is playing with her. Sophia has always played with her. This is nothing. This is just another way to make her doubt herself. To make her feel small.
Braxton loves her.
He would never—
Her phone buzzes on the dressing table.
She lunges for it, her heart leaping. He called back. He finally called back.
But the screen does not show Braxton's name.
It shows a message from Alexia.
Isla's thumb hovers over the notification. Her chest is tight. Her breath is shallow.
She opens it.
The message is short.
"Trying on my dress for tomorrow. Hope yours fits.
Isla stares at the words. Her hands are trembling so badly the screen blurs.
Why would Alexia text her about a dress at this hour? Why would she text her at all? They never text. Alexia has never once sent her a message that was not cruel.
Something is wrong.
She sets the phone down, but her legs are moving before she makes a decision. She does not know where she is going. She does not know what she is looking for. But she cannot stand still. Cannot breathe. Cannot think.
She walks out of her room.
The hallway is dark. The house is quiet. The portraits on the walls watch her pass—Sophia's family, Sophia's children, Sophia's life. There is no picture of Clara Prescott anywhere. No picture of the woman who died giving birth to her. No picture of the mother she never knew.
She is a ghost in a house full of people who wish she never existed.
She walks toward the stairs, but something stops her.
A sound.
Faint. Soft. Coming from the guest wing.
The wing where Braxton has been staying for the last three days because his apartment was being painted. Because he wanted to be close to her. Because he said he could not wait another night without seeing her face.
She stands at the top of the stairs, listening.
There it is again.
A laugh.
A woman's laugh.
Familiar.
Her heart stops.
No.
She knows that laugh. She has heard it her whole life. At the dinner table. In the hallways. In every room of this house, always followed by a smirk and a cutting remark.
Alexia.
Isla's feet move before her mind catches up. She walks down the hallway, her steps slow, her heart pounding so hard she can hear it in her ears. The house is silent except for the sound of her breathing and the faint whisper of her dress against the floor.
She passes the dining room. The kitchen. The study.
The laughter comes again. Closer this time.
And then she hears something else.
A man's voice.
Low. Familiar.
Her blood runs cold.
Braxton.
No.
She stops in the middle of the hallway. Her legs will not move. Her lungs will not work. Her whole body has turned to ice.
She is imagining this. She has to be imagining this. Her mind is playing tricks on her because Sophia's words are still crawling under her skin, because she has spent her whole life waiting for the other shoe to drop, because she has never once believed she deserved to be happy.
That is all this is. Fear. Anxiety. Twenty-three years of being told she is not enough.
She takes a step forward. Then another.
She just needs to see. She just needs to prove to herself that nothing is wrong. She will walk past Braxton's room, hear nothing, and go back to her own room and laugh at herself for being so stupid.
She reaches the door.
It is slightly open.
Golden light spills out into the dark hallway.
And she hears it.
Alexia's voice. Soft. Breathless. Intimate.
"You are going to get us caught."
Silence.
Then Braxton's voice. Low. Amused.
"No one is coming. Everyone is asleep."
Isla's hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes burn. Her chest heaves.
She should leave. She should turn around and walk away and pretend she never heard anything. She should go back to her room and take off this dress and climb into bed and close her eyes and pretend tomorrow is still coming.
But her feet will not move.
Her hand is reaching for the door before she can stop it.
Her fingers touch the wood. Cold. Solid.
She pushes.
The door swings open slowly, the hinges letting out a soft creak that seems to echo forever.
The room is warm. Golden light from the bedside lamp spills across the floor. Clothes are scattered on the chair near the window. A man's jacket. A woman's heel. A tie draped over the headboard.
And there, in the middle of the bed, tangled in white sheets, are two people.
Braxton is propped up against the pillows. His hair is messy. His chest is bare. His arm is wrapped around the woman beside him like he has held her a hundred times before.
And next to him, her head resting on his shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin, is Alexia.
She is wearing a silk robe. Her makeup is smudged. Her lips are curved into a smile.
When she sees Isla standing in the doorway, her smile widens.
She does not look surprised.
She does not look guilty.
She looks satisfied.
"Oh," Alexia says, her voice light and sweet like honey. "Isla. I did not hear you knock."
Braxton's head snaps toward the door. His eyes go wide. His face drains of color. He sits up so fast the sheets fall around his waist.
"Isla—" His voice cracks. His hands reach for something—a shirt, the sheets, her—she does not know. "Isla, wait. This is not what it looks like."
Isla stares at them.
Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Her hands are shaking. Her whole body is shaking. The room is spinning.
Alexia shifts beside him, letting her robe fall a little lower off her shoulder. She looks at Isla with something that might be pity. Or triumph. Or both.
"It just happened," Alexia says softly. "We did not mean to hurt you."
Did not mean to hurt you.
The words echo in Isla's head, bouncing off the walls of her skull.
She looks at Braxton. Really looks at him. At the man who got down on one knee and told her she was the best thing that ever happened to him. At the man who held her face in his hands and promised he would never let anyone hurt her again.
He cannot meet her eyes.
His face is red. His mouth opens and closes like a fish pulled out of water.
"Isla," he says again. "Please. Let me explain."
"Explain what?" The words come out of her mouth, but she does not recognize her own voice. It is thin. Broken. Barely human.
Braxton swallows hard. He runs a hand through his messy hair. "I did not—it did not mean anything. It was a mistake. A stupid, stupid mistake."
Alexia's smile falters for just a second. She looks at Braxton, something sharp flashing in her eyes. Then she looks back at Isla, and her expression softens into something gentle. Something kind.
"Do not be angry at him," Alexia says. Her voice is sweet. Understanding. Like she is the one comforting Isla. Like she did not just take everything Isla had. "It is my fault. I should not have come here tonight. I just… I wanted to see him. One last time."
One last time.
Isla's knees buckle. She grabs the doorframe to keep from falling.
"How long?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
Braxton flinches. "Isla—"
"How long?" she says again. Louder this time.
He looks at his hands. His shoulders slump. He looks small. Smaller than she has ever seen him.
"Six months," he says quietly.
Six months.
The room tilts.
Six months of smiles and I love you and promises. Six months of her believing she was finally enough. Six months of her giving him everything she had while he was giving himself to someone else.
To her stepsister.
To the woman who has spent her whole life taking everything Isla ever wanted.
Alexia reaches out and touches Braxton's arm. A small gesture. Intimate. Proprietary.
"It was not supposed to happen this way," Alexia says softly. She looks at Isla with those big, innocent eyes. "We tried to stop. We did. But sometimes… the heart wants what it wants."
The heart wants what it wants.
Isla stares at her. At the woman who has never wanted anything except what belongs to her. At the woman who has been waiting her whole life for this moment.
"You planned this," Isla breathes.
Alexia tilts her head. "What?"
"You planned this." Isla's voice is stronger now. The fog in her head is clearing. The pain is still there, sharp and deep, but underneath it, something else is rising. Something hot. Something hard. "You took him because you knew it would break me. You have always wanted to break me."
Alexia's expression flickers. For a second, the mask slips. For a second, Isla sees the real Alexia—the one who has hated her since the day Sophia walked into this house with her two children and a smile that promised nothing but war.
Then the mask is back.
"I do not know what you are talking about," Alexia says softly. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"Get out."
Braxton looks up. His eyes are red. "Isla, please—"
"Get out of my house."
She does not scream. Her voice is quiet. Dead. It is worse than screaming.
Braxton reaches for her. "Just let me explain. I love you. I have always loved you. This did not mean anything. She did not mean anything."
Beside him, Alexia goes very still.
Isla looks at his outstretched hand. The hand that held her. The hand that promised her forever. The hand that was touching Alexia's skin moments ago.
She feels something inside her crack.
"Do not," she whispers. "Do not say that to me. Not after what I just saw."
Braxton's face crumples. "Isla—"
"Get out," she says again. "Get out. Get out. GET OUT!"
The scream tears through her throat. It fills the room, echoes down the hallway, rattles the windows. She has never screamed like that. She has never screamed at all. She has spent her whole life being quiet, being small, being good. And look where it got her.
She turns and runs.
Her feet carry her down the hallway, past the portraits, past the dining room, past the stairs. Her dress bunches in her hands. Her shoes slip on the floor. She does not care. She needs to get out. She needs to breathe. She needs to be anywhere but here.
Behind her, she hears Braxton calling her name. Footsteps. A door opening.
She bursts through the front door and into the cold night air.
The driveway is empty. The house looms behind her, dark and cold and full of people who have never wanted her. The sky is black. The stars are hidden behind clouds. The whole world feels like it is ending.
She pulls out her phone. Her hands are shaking so badly she almost drops it. She scrolls through her contacts, looking for someone, anyone, but there is no one. There has never been anyone.
No friends. No family. No one who has ever looked at her and seen something worth keeping.
Her father is somewhere across the world, probably. On another business trip. In another meeting. Forgetting he has a daughter who needed him twenty-three years ago and never stopped needing him.
She looks back at the house. A light is on in Braxton's room. She can see shadows moving behind the curtains. She can imagine them. His hands. Her hands. The sheets. The smiles.
Her car is parked near the gate.
She runs to it. Her fingers fumble with the keys. The engine roars to life.
She drives.
She does not know where she is going. She does not care. She just needs to get away. Away from the house. Away from Braxton. Away from the image of him in that bed with her stepsister's arms around him.
The streets blur past her. The city lights smear into streaks of gold and red. Her vision is too blurry to see. Her chest is too tight to breathe. She cannot stop crying. The tears are hot on her face, dripping onto her dress, onto her hands, onto the steering wheel.
She did not see the truck.
It comes out of nowhere. A wall of metal and light. The horn blares through the night, long and loud and terrified.
Isla's hands lock on the steering wheel.
She does not have time to swerve.
The impact is deafening.
Glass explodes around her. Metal screams against metal. Her body jerks forward, then sideways, then everything is spinning. The world flips over and over. She cannot tell which way is up. She cannot tell which way is down.
Pain rips through her. Sharp. Hot. Everywhere.
Then silence.
The car is upside down. Or sideways. She cannot tell. Her head is heavy. Her eyes are closing. She can feel blood running down her face, warm and thick, pooling in her ear, dripping onto the shattered glass beneath her.
She tries to move. She cannot.
She tries to breathe. It hurts. Everything hurts.
In the distance, she hears footsteps.
Someone is coming.
She tries to call out, but her voice will not work. Her lips will not move. Her tongue is heavy in her mouth.
The footsteps get closer.
She sees shoes. Black shoes. Expensive shoes.
Then a face leans down.
She does not recognize him. He is wearing a dark jacket. His face is hard. His eyes are cold. He looks at her like she is nothing. Like she is already dead.
He raises his hand.
There is a gun.
I tries to speak. I tried to scream. Try to do anything.
The gun points at her.
The man's face is calm. Unmoved. Like this is just another job. Another body. Another night.
"Sorry about this," he says quietly.
The last thing Isla sees is the flash of the muzzle.
Then everything goes black.