THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE

Some girls dreamed of glass slippers and fairy tales. Luna Reyes? She just wanted food.

Her stomach growled, loud and insistent, as she pressed her face against the window of Sterling Pavilion. Inside, lights shimmered like stars over tables heavy with food she couldn't even name. Golden chandeliers sparkled, and the hum of music and laughter drifted into the cool evening air.

"Just one plate," she murmured, tugging the thrift-shop wedding dress tighter around her frame. The faded lace scratched her skin, the bodice loose where it should’ve hugged her curves. "In and out. Nobody will notice."

A side door hung open, a steady stream of servers passing through. Luna slipped inside, her heart hammering against her ribs as the warmth and scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and wine washed over her.

Workers in crisp black and white uniforms bustled around, too preoccupied to spare her a glance. Maybe they assumed she belonged. That thought made her want to laugh.

She followed the scent of food like a starving animal, mouth watering, when harsh voices halted her.

"Where the hell is she?" A man’s voice, sharp and cold enough to shatter glass.

Luna pressed her back against the wall, peering around the corner. Two men occupied what looked like a small waiting lounge. One of them, tall with dark hair and storm-gray eyes, paced like a predator. His tuxedo fit him like it had been tailored by the gods.

"Fifty minutes late, Marcus." The tall one checked a sleek watch on his wrist, jaw clenched tight. "The Miyamoto delegation is threatening to walk."

"I'm working on it," the other man, Marcus, replied without looking up from his phone. "Helena isn’t answering."

"I don't care if she’s having cold feet. This merger hinges on appearances. If she doesn't show, we're screwed."

Luna’s stomach gave an untimely growl.

Both men stiffened. She shrank back, but too late. In her retreat, she brushed a table. A vase wobbled — and shattered to the floor.

The men turned sharply.

Marcus squinted. "Helena?"

Luna opened her mouth, scrambling for an excuse. "I'm not—"

"You’re late," the tall one, Grayson, cut her off, already striding toward her with lethal intent in his eyes.

Up close, those gray eyes were even more intense. Like storms. Like knives.

"Guests are waiting," he growled.

"But I—"

"Save it." He snapped his watch shut. "Marcus, get her ready. Now."

Before she could blink, Marcus was beside her, his expression all polite charm. "Of course. Miss Helena, let’s get you to the bridal suite for some quick touch-ups."

"Bridal suite?" Luna whispered, heart pounding.

"Nerves," Marcus murmured. "Completely normal."

A woman appeared with a makeup case. Another brought ivory satin shoes. Luna stood frozen as they surrounded her like a swarm, fussing with her hair, brushing powder over her face.

This isn’t happening.

Just go with it, she thought. Food, maybe a warm place to sleep. Whatever this is, it’ll unravel soon enough.

"Five minutes," a coordinator called through the door.

"Wait, listen—" Luna tried, but Marcus pressed a bouquet into her hands.

"No time," he smiled, steering her toward a set of double doors. "Smile for the cameras."

Cameras?

The music beyond the doors swelled. Luna’s pulse jackhammered.

It’s a prank, she told herself. A costume party. Or some weird theater gig.

Then the doors opened.

A hundred faces turned toward her. At the end of a flower-strewn aisle stood Grayson, stone-faced and radiating cold fury. Beside him, an officiant cleared his throat.

"Oh God," Luna breathed.

A nudge in her back made her stumble forward.

She took a step, then another, the dress suddenly a lead weight, the bouquet slippery in her sweating hands. She should run. Right now. Back to Raven Hollow. Back to—no, never back to Damien.

Grayson’s unrelenting gaze held hers, unreadable and sharp as a blade.

"Dearly beloved," the officiant began.

Luna’s mind screamed for her to stop it. Speak up. Say something. But her empty stomach twisted at the sight of the reception tables, gleaming with food beyond the ceremony.

The words blurred. Vows exchanged. Grayson’s hand cold and firm when it grasped hers. The weight of a ring sliding onto her finger.

Then came the papers.

"Sign here," Marcus instructed, tapping the line.

Luna scrawled her name — her real name — then froze.

Marriage License.

Her breath hitched. She looked up. "Wait, is this… real?"

Grayson took the pen and signed without hesitation. "Of course it’s real. What did you think this was?"

Her mouth opened, words failing.

"Congratulations!" the officiant declared. "I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Vaughn."

Applause erupted. Flashbulbs exploded. Grayson’s hand clamped around her wrist — firm, not cruel. Nothing like Damien’s punishing grip.

"Smile," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Luna forced a weak grin. "I’m not Helena," she whispered.

Grayson’s brow furrowed. At last, truly looking at her. "What?"

"My name’s Luna Reyes."

His expression turned to stone. The storm in his eyes darkened.

Marcus appeared, face tight. "Problem?"

"We need to talk," Grayson muttered, yanking Luna toward an exit.

"The reception—" Marcus protested.

"Now."

As they passed the table, Luna’s gaze caught on the marriage license, her new name staring back at her in crisp black ink.

Luna Reyes Vaughn.

She’d escaped one nightmare only to marry herself into another.

And this one wore a tuxedo and a scowl.