Page 83 of My Wedding Night Massacre

I turn away from the window, and head for the bedroom. Tomorrow, I'll deal with Leo. Deal with Dmitri. Deal with the empire that needs its king back.

Tonight, I'll lie in my expensive, empty bed and remind myself why my body shouldn’t get what it wants.

Aurora

The next evening.

I stare at the black dress hanging on my hotel room door and want to set it on fire. One of Dad's associates, some art dealer who launders money through overpriced paintings, is hosting a gallery opening tonight, and I'm expected to show up. Smile. Play the dutiful daughter. Pretend I give a shit about modern art when all I can think about is silver hair and dark eyes and the way my body betrayed me last night.

"You're being ridiculous," I tell my reflection. "All you got from him was just a look. Get over it."

My reflection doesn't look convinced.

I haven't stopped thinking about him. The silver-haired man who made me wet without touching me, without speaking, without doing anything except exist in the same room. I woke up this morning aching, frustrated, my hand between my legs, trying to recreate whatever the hell that feeling was.

It didn't work.

Nothing worked.

I grab my phone, pull up the group chat with Chloe and Tiana.

Me: Kill me now. Dad's making me go to some boring art thing tonight.

Chloe: The one with all the rich old men who smell like cigars?

Me: That's the one.

Tiana: At least the champagne will be good?

Chloe: Maybe silver fox, I mean silver crush will be there 👀

Me: He won't be there. And stop calling him that.

Chloe: Why? You're gonna see him again and need a better nickname? "Daddy" perhaps?

Me: Fuck you.

Chloe: Nah, I'll pass. Now go put on something slutty and expensive and go spend daddy’s money.

I don't put on something slutty, it’s more like sexy. I put on the black dress because it's the only formal thing I packed, and it happens to hug every curve like it's got opinions about my body. Off the shoulder, slit up the thigh, the kind of dress that says I'm here against my will, but I'll look good doing it.

The gallery is in the arts district, all exposed brick and pretentious lighting. I arrive fashionably late because I'm petty like that, and immediately grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

The place is packed with exactly who I expected—men in expensive suits discussing profit margins disguised as artistic vision, women in designer dresses pretending they understand postmodernism. I recognize half of them from Dad's world. The other half are probably legitimate art lovers who have no idea they're drinking champagne paid for with blood money.

I'm three steps into the room when —

What the hell?!

He really is here. Oh my God, is Chloe psychic now?

Silver hair. Black suit. Standing in front of a massive abstract painting like he's actually considering buying it.

My heart stops.

No.

No, this is—