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His mouth twitches. "No one complains that much about a person unless they’ve gotten under their skin. A bruise fades. A splinter keeps reminding you it’s there."

That laugh comes easier. "A splinter is an accurate depiction of him."

He goes quiet again, looking at me too closely.

I know what he sees. The ring. The nerves. The fact that I'm delivering this news two days before the wedding like it's something I can keep tidy if I say it fast enough.

"Do you want to marry him?" he asks.

My throat tightens.

This is why I came. Not just to tell him. To say it out loud to someone who loves me enough to hear the cracks.

"It's complicated."

His expression shifts into something gentler. "That usually means no."

"It doesn't mean no," I say quickly. Then slower, because he deserves honesty. "It means... it's not what people think."

He waits. He's always been good at waiting me out. Did it when I was six and lying badly about stealing cadmium red from Mom's paint drawer. He does it now with patience that makes me feel twelve.

So I tell him enough of the truth to survive my own conscience and keep him from talking me out of it... or worse, feeling any responsibility for why I'm doing it. I'm the only one who should feel responsible for why he's in this place. It was my show they were coming to see.

"It makes sense," I say. "We're well matched."

Though I don't tell him why we match so well.

His eyes narrow slightly. "That sounds like business."

I look down at the ring and watch it catch the afternoon light.

"It's not like that," I say.

"Aria."

"It's not. He isn't cruel. He's just..." I trail off, because what is Everett? Controlled. Cold. Careful. Buried alive in his own armor. "He's complicated."

Dad watches me for a long moment.

"Do you love him?" he asks.

I pause to consider.

Do I love a man who sleeps in his office to avoid me? Who fired me, and then agreed to a contract marriage in the same breath, and still looks at me from across his office like I'm some kind of threat to the balance of his life.

My first instinct is to say no, but the word sticks.

Because I don't love him.

I don't. And he warned me not to.

And yet—

My stomach tightens when I think about Sienna's hand on his arm.

My breath catches when he looks at my mouth.

My whole body burns when I think about Saturday night, which should horrify me and instead makes heat pool low in my belly like I'm the kind of fool who forgets her common sense every time he steps too close.