CHAPTER 3

The sun that day was a liar.

It poured through the windows of Alexandra's small apartment, painting everything in a warm, buttery gold. It lit up the dust motes dancing in the air, made the pale wood floors glow, and caught the edge of the open wedding planner on her kitchen table, turning the glossy pages into sheets of light.

Alexandra hummed, a tuneless, happy sound. Her bare feet were cool on the floorboards. She spun once, slowly, in the middle of the living room, her arms outstretched. In three months, she would be Alexandra Reed-Hawthorne. The thought sent a fizzy, disbelieving laugh bubbling up in her throat.

David Hawthorne. Her David. Serious, charming David with his sandy hair and his promise of a safe, steady future.

The apartment was full of him. His economics textbooks stacked by the sofa. His worn leather jacket draped over a chair. The faint, clean smell of his soap mingling with her lavender candles. It felt like a shared life. It felt like a home being built, brick by happy brick.

On the table, next to the wedding planner, sat her final triumph: a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, chilling in a silver ice bucket she'd borrowed from her mother. The green glass sparkled. She had picked it up an hour early, her heart doing a giddy tap-dance in her chest. David had aced his final law school exam today. He was finishing up a study group, he'd said. They were going to celebrate. Just the two of them.

She pictured his face. The way his serious gray eyes would crinkle at the corners, the slow, surprised smile that would spread across his face. For me? He'd say, in that soft, humble way he had. She'd pop the cork. They'd drink from the same glass. They'd talk about venues, about the caterer's tasting menu, about whether his conservative aunt would faint if they didn't have a would faint if they didn't have a church ceremony.

It was all so wonderfully, boringly normal. It was the life she'd craved since she was a little girl, feeling like a guest in her own family. A life of her own making. With a man she'd chosen, who had chosen her back.

She checked the clock. He'd be home any minute.

A sudden, impulsive idea struck her. A surprise within a surprise. She wouldn't just have the champagne ready. She'd be... ready.

A slow smile touched her lips. She padded to her bedroom, the one with the big, iron-framed bed they'd picked out together. She opened her drawer and found the lingerie-a delicate, lace-trimmed slip of ivory silk she'd bought weeks ago and hadn't had the courage to wear. For the honeymoon, she'd told herself. But today felt like a prelude.

She changed quickly, her fingers fumbling slightly with the tiny straps. She looked at herself in the full- length mirror on the back of the door. The silk fell against her skin, subtle and suggestive. She blushed, pulling on her familiar, soft kimono robe over it. He could discover it for himself.

The sound of a key in the front door lock made her jump.

Her breath caught. He was early! A bolt of excitement shot through her. She slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. She'd wait for him in the living room, by the champagne. Let him come find her.

She heard the door open and close. Heard the familiar thump of his backpack hitting the floor.

David?" she called out, her voice sing-song. "In here!"

No answer.

She frowned. Maybe he had his headphones on. She tiptoed to the living room archway, a playful smirk on her face, ready to startle him.

The living room was empty.

But his backpack was there, a slumped, dark shape on her rug.

From down the short hallway, she heard a sound. A muffled thump. From her bedroom.

Our bedroom.

A tiny, cold pinprick of confusion touched her happiness. Maybe he'd gone straight in to change. Maybe he was tired.

She walked down the hallway, the old floorboard creaking under her foot. The door to the bedroom was ajar, just a sliver. A strange, tense silence seemed to pulse from the other side.

David?" she said again, pushing the door open.

The scene imprinted itself on her mind in a single, frozen snapshot.

Her bed. Their bed. The white duvet was a tangled sea, half-pulled onto the floor. Two bodies were in it.

David. His back was to her, bare and pale.

And wrapped around him, one arm slung possessively over his hip, her face pressed against his shoulder blade, was Chloe.

Alexandra's stepsister. Her hair-a chemically perfected platinum blonde that was nothing like Alexandra's dark curls-fanned out over Alexandra's own pillow. Her eyes were closed, a small, smug smile on her glossed lips.

Alexandra stopped. The world did not shatter dramatically. It simply... stopped. The hum of the refrigerator downstairs ceased. The distant traffic outside vanished. There was only the visual of them, and a high, thin ringing in her ears.

David must have sensed her. He stiffened. He turned his head slowly, as if moving through syrup.

His gray eyes met hers. They widened. Not with horror, she realized later. With inconvenience. With the annoyance of a man whose plan has hit a snag.

"Alex," he said. His voice was rough, sleep-tinged. Guilty. "What are you doing here?"

The question was so absurd it unlocked her voice. "What am I doing here?" The words came out flat, dead. "This is my apartment."

Chloe stirred then. She made a show of it-a languid stretch, a sleepy murmur. She opened her eyes. They were a bright, sharp blue. They found Alexandra standing in the doorway, in her robe, and they lit up with a vicious, unholy delight.

"Oh," Chloe said, drawing the word out. She didn't bother to cover herself. She propped herself up on an elbow, the sheet pooling at her waist. "You're home early."

Alexandra could not move. She could not breathe. She stared at David. "Get out," she whispered.

"Alex, wait," David said, finally scrambling to sit up, pulling the   scrambling to sit up, pulling the sheet with him. His face was a mask of panicked calculation. "This isn't what it looks like."

A sound escaped Alexandra's throat a half-choke, half-laugh. "You're in my bed. With my sister. What exactly does it look like, David?"

"Stepsister," Chloe corrected smoothly, her voice like polished stone. "We're not actually related. That's important, don't you think, David?"

David didn't look at Chloe. He kept David didn't look at Chloe. He kept his pleading eyes on Alexandra. "It was a mistake. A one-time thing. We were stressed, we had too much to drink after the study group-"

"The study group that ended three hours ago?" Alexandra heard herself say. The part of her that was still functioning was detached, analytical. "And the 'one-time thing' that required you to be in my bed, under my wedding-planning duvet?”

Chloe laughed. It was a light, tinkling sound that grated on Alexandra's nerves like broken glass. "Oh, David. Still lying to her?" She turned her triumphant gaze to Alexandra. "It's been going on for two years, Allie. Since before he even asked you to dinner. Since your twenty-fourth birthday party, in fact. Remember? You got sick and went to bed early. He stayed to 'help clean up."

Each word was a precise, poisoned dart. Alexandra remembered that night. The fuzzy nausea, David's cool hand on her forehead, his promise to take care of everything downstairs.

She looked at David. The guilt on his face had hardened into a sullen defensiveness. Confirmation.

"Why?" The single word was ripped from her.

David looked down at the sheets. He couldn't meet her eyes.

Chloe answered for him. "Because you're the Reed heir, sweetie." She said it like it was obvious, like explaining gravity to a child. "The only daughter of Charles and Eleanor Reed. The big trust fund, the family money. David's got ambitions. Law school isn't cheap. A starter marriage to a nice, quiet girl with a solid portfolio... well, it's a practical foundation."