Chapter 3

Selene smiled at me as if we were long-time friends.

It was the sort of smile that made me think of my favorites among those expensive knives advertised on late-night television—dazzling, alluring, and made to cut cleanly through you with nothing left behind.

“Rhea,” she sang, draping an arm across my shoulders as she pulled me through the bridal suite, “I have to admit, you’ve done wonders. The florist, the lighting, even the monogrammed cocktail stirrers? Brilliant.”

I forced a polite smile. “Glad to hear you’re satisfied.”

“Mm. Satisfied isn’t quite the word,” she purred, her tone tipping toward something more performative than genuine.

Her perfume was overpowering—something stinging, floral, pricey. It stung my eyes.

I played along. At least until I knew what game I was playing.

She escorted me to a table laden with swatches, bridesmaid party jewelry choices, and three color-coded mood boards. I had set them all out, of course. Selene hadn't done a thing.

"I'm thinking we replace the bridesmaids' silk slips with the champagne sequin ones. Too much pastel makes them pale," she told one of her assistants, snapping a finger at them as if at a fly.

"Your first choice was rose quartz," I reminded her, calmly. "It coordinating with the ceremony florals and the evening lighting."

Selene arched a single eyebrow. "Do you disagree with me?"

"No," I replied, voice even. "But I would warn against making last-minute alterations that influence your visuals. That means photography, lighting color, and overall cohesion."

She cocked her head. "You know, Rhea, you're really good at keeping to yourself. Almost too good."

I remained silent. Her tone had gone sugary, but her gaze was piercing.

You ever wonder what became of Vanessa?" she asked abruptly, playing with a piece of jewelry without raising her eyes.

I came to an abrupt halt.

"Vanessa Ward," she went on blithely. "She had the same. innocence. It's adorable. Until it becomes a problem."

My heart pounded against my collarbone. "I thought she quit."

"She did." Selene smiled again, sharp and sweet. "After she figured out that sticking her nose into other people's business wasn't part of her job description.

My mouth went dry. I knew what this was. A test. A warning. A flex.

“I’m here to plan your wedding, Selene,” I said carefully. “That’s all.”

She beamed. “Good girl.”

And just like that, she turned her back and walked toward her designer gown rack, her laughter echoing behind her like the clink of broken glass.

---

I exited the suite with a knot in my gut and a hundred me's fighting within my mind. The desire to just walk away from it all—this hellish wedding, the threatening letters, the sick games—was nearly too much to bear.

And then I remembered Vanessa Ward. And how no one searched for her.

I wasn't going to disappear quietly.

I needed assistance. Not only Claire. Someone with clearance. Someone who didn't fear names like Whitmore.

Which was why I was standing in the doorway of a brownstone on Chelsea, ringing a door with a security camera disguised as a potted plant.

Marcus Reed answered. A retired police detective, Claire's suggestion.

"Miss Morgan," he said, voice coarse, weathered as an old book. "You arrived alone. That's wise. Or stupid. I have not yet made up my mind." 

"Likely both," I replied. "May I come in?"

He moved out of the way. "You have ten minutes. I don't take every case. Particularly those that arrive tied up in ribbon and scandal.

His living room was austere—bookshelves, a heavy coffee table, and framed newspaper articles about vintage cases. I sat on the corner of a leather armchair, already loaded with the burden of my own tale.

"Sounds like somebody's trying to intimidate me," I started. "And sounds like a woman named Vanessa Ward went missing because of it."

He didn't flinch. "You're covering the Whitmore wedding?"

I nodded. "You've heard of them."

"Everyone's heard of them. Most don't live long enough to speak about it."

I took the message out of my bag, the number written on it.

"I received this two nights ago," I told him. "I think I have someone who's following me. Maybe more than one. And Selene—she knows things. She teases them. Like it's a game."

He reached for the paper, wincing. "I'll try tracing the number. No guarantee. Burners are tricky to track. But I'll investigate."

"Thank you," I replied.

"Another thing," he added, giving me the look that could freeze rivers. "Why are you still working this wedding?"

I gazed at him, not sure if I should lie.

And then I said, "Because the truth is important. And someone needs to put an end to this charade that this is all about flower arrangements and seating charts."

He nodded once. "I'll be in touch."

---

I returned to the venue to discover a note at my desk. Not an email message. Not a text message.

A handwritten note sandwiched under a proof of a menu.

Tonight. Balcony outside the library. 9PM. Come alone. –A

I gazed at it, heart constricting.

Aarav.

Of course it was him.

Of course I was going.

Because even with danger, I required answers—and because if there was even a sliver of truth in what I'd sensed in his presence, I couldn't pretend it hadn't happened.

At 8:55 PM, I was standing on the stone balcony, coat wrapped tightly about me, wind nipping at my cheeks.

Aarav emerged from the darkness, hands in his pockets, eyes clouded by exhaustion or regret—perhaps both.

“You came,” he said softly.

“You asked.”

A pause.

Then, “I need to tell you something. Something Selene doesn’t want anyone knowing.”

I held my breath.

"She and I. we were married once," he said, every word a confession spilling into the air. "In secret. Years ago. It didn't work. It never should have begun. But Marcus—her father—he pushed us back together. This engagement? It's an arrangement. One I signed on for, for my family's benefit."

I remained silent. Just listened. My body was rigid, prepared for worse.

"There was someone else," he went on. "Before Selene. Someone who resembled you very much. She died. In. unusual circumstances."

I swallowed. "Are you telling me she was killed?"

"I don't know. But Selene despised her. I'm certain of that."

My blood turned icy.

"I never wanted to bring you into this," Aarav said, voice cracking. "But you're in it now. And I'm terrified for you."

I looked into his eyes. "Then help me. Don't shut me out."

Something snapped in him, and under the moonlight, he seemed less man and more memory fraying apart.

He stepped closer.

And for the first time since I'd known him, he touched me—his hand on mine, warm, shaking.

And like that, the distinction between planner and groom dissolved.

And I knew I was beyond the point of no return.