Chapter 3

In the week leading up to the gala, I lived on that false hope. I filled a sketchbook with dress designs, pouring all my fractured energy into creating the perfect gown.

My older brother, Landon, found me hunched over my desk, surrounded by charcoal sketches and fabric swatches. He picked up a drawing of an elegant, midnight-blue dress.

"You can't be serious, Hatti," he said, his voice quiet but sharp.

"He invited me," I said, my voice defensive. "This is important."

Landon's face was grim. "He's using you. He'll show you off like a well-behaved pet, and he'll leash you the moment you step out of line. Open your eyes."

"You don't know him," I shot back, the words tasting like ash. We fought, and he left my room with a look of profound disappointment, leaving me more isolated than ever.

Dillon's formal invitation came with a list of rules.

"I need you to be perfect," he said over the phone.

He took me to a high-end designer showroom, waving away my sketchbook. "Your designs are... a little too much, Hatti. Too personal."

He scanned the racks with a critical eye before pulling out a dress. It was beige. A bland, shapeless, obscenely expensive beige dress.

"This one," he declared. "Your job is to look elegant, smile, and stay by my side. No talking to the press. No causing a scene. My father will be watching."

It wasn't a date. It was a job assignment. I was his prop.

After the fitting, I waited in his car while he took a call. I thought he'd disconnected his phone from the car's Bluetooth system, but he hadn't. His voice, and the voice of his best friend, Marcus Thorne, filled the silent car.

Dillon was laughing.

"Of course I'm taking Hatti," he said. "My father can't stand Seraphina's drama. Hatti is the perfect wallpaper-blends right in. It keeps everyone happy while I handle the real prize."

Marcus chuckled. "And after?"

"Once the formalities are over, I'm meeting Seraphina," Dillon's voice was laced with smug satisfaction. "She's got a surprise for me."

Wallpaper.

The word echoed in the confined space of the car, in the hollow space in my chest. Every lie I had told myself, every excuse I had made for him, burned away in that single, brutal moment.

There was no more hope. There was only the cold, sick certainty of the truth.

I decided I would still go to the gala. I had to see it. I had to watch him destroy me with my own two eyes.