CHAPTER FOUR

Marilyn

"I now pronounce you husband and wife." The priest's voice echoed off the walls of the small chapel.

I stared straight ahead. Raffaele stood beside me with the same composed expression he'd worn since we arrived making it feel like this was a board meeting rather than our wedding.

Only his secretary and mine had witnessed it. No flowers, no guests, no music. Just vows that sounded like lies, signatures, and the strange new weight of a ring on my finger that hadn't been there this morning.

We took photographs afterward. It was Raffaele's idea.

“Grip the narrative before it grips you,” he'd said.

His photographer was professional and fast, and Raffaele, to my considerable irritation, was very good at this. He knew exactly where to put his hand, exactly how to angle toward me, exactly how to look at a camera like he meant it.

I looked at the images on the photographer's preview screen and felt something uncomfortable move through me. We looked like a couple, no one would doubt we weren’t in love.

I handed the camera back without a word.

"We will release the photos today," Raffaele said.

"Absolutely not." I turned to face him.

"My parents don't know anything yet. I'm not letting them find out through a tabloid headline."

He considered this for exactly two seconds. "Fine. Your parents first. But Dylan and Charlotte find out the same way the rest of New York does."

I thought about that for a moment.

"Agreed," I said.

We drove to my parents' house in Raffaele's car. I spent the ride rehearsing what I was going to say and discarding every version of it. There was no version of this that landed softly.

My mother opened the door before we reached it. She had always had a sixth sense for when something was wrong.

We sat in the living room. My father took the armchair by the window. My mother sat across from me on the edge of the sofa, hands folded in her lap, eyes moving between my face and the man beside me.

I told them everything. From the fitting, going to Dylan's that evening, what I saw, what I recorded. I kept my voice even and my hands still and I watched my mother's face change in slow, painful increments.

By the time I finished, the room was very quiet.

"So," my father said finally. "You married him because of what Dylan did."

"I married him because it was the right move," I said carefully. "

Raffaele and I had been spending time together and when everything fell apart, he was there. This isn't impulsive. It's what we both want."

It was the cover story we had agreed on in the car. It was plausible enough.

My father looked at Raffaele the way fathers looked at men they hadn't chosen for their daughters.

Raffaele held the look without shifting.

"She won't want for anything," Raffaele said quietly. "You have my word."

Something in my father's jaw loosened slightly.

My mother hadn't spoken since I'd described the bedroom. She reached across and took my hand now, pressing it hard between both of hers.

"She started this," she said finally, meaning Charlotte. "Whatever comes next, she started it."

I squeezed her hand and didn't trust myself to answer.

We left an hour later. I felt lighter walking out than I had walking in, not because anything had been fixed, but because I wasn't carrying it alone anymore.

Raffaele's phone was already in his hand before we reached the car.

"Now?" I asked.

"Now," he said, and sent the photos.

My phone started ringing four minutes later. I watched Dylan's name flash across the screen twice, then Charlotte's, then Dylan again. I set the phone face-down on my lap and looked out the window.

"You could have waited until we were inside," I said.

"You could have married a man who waits," Raffaele replied. "You didn't."

I didn't have an answer for that.

His house…mansion was a more accurate word, though calling it that felt almost insufficient, sat behind iron gates at the end of a private drive.

I was still taking in the entrance hall when I heard tires on gravel behind us.

I turned.

Dylan was coming up the drive on foot, having apparently abandoned his car at the gate. His jacket was open, his hair slightly disheveled, and the look on his face was something I had never seen on him before.

He stopped a few feet away, breathing hard.

"What did you do?" He asked angrily.

"I got married," I said. "Congratulations are customary."

"Marilyn." He said my name like a warning. "What is this? What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

He looked at Raffaele then, and something passed between them that I didn't entirely understand.

Then his eyes came back to me. "You were supposed to marry me tomorrow. Three days ago you were.. " He stopped. "I don't understand."

I tilted my head slightly.

"Don't you?" I said. "Or is it that you understand perfectly, and you just never thought I'd find out?"

The silence that followed told me everything I needed to know about how much he knew.

“What are you talking about?” He asked very unconvincingly.

“I don't know, shouldn't you be with the woman you love.. I mean Charlotte?”

His face went very still.

I held his gaze and smiled.

"Dylan," I said quietly, "I have a video."

The color left his face.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

"That I have proof.”

He took a step forward. "Marilyn, wait…"

Raffaele moved, stepping between us, hands in his pockets, expression entirely calm.

"I think you should leave." Raffaele said.

Dylan looked at him. Then at me.

"This isn't over," Dylan said.

I picked up my bag.

"No," I agreed. "It's just starting."

I walked inside without looking back. The door closed behind me with a soft, final click.

I stood in the entrance hall, alone for a moment.

My mind went back to the look that passed between Raffaele and Dylan. This was way more than me getting revenge.

Had I made a mistake by joining myself with this man?