CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Genevieve stood at the back of the rows of chairs with her veil in place, a

bouquet of white roses in her hands. The wedding was all white. White

chairs. White flowers. White candles. A white runner on the ground for her

to walk on. The only thing besides the tuxedos that weren’t white were the

clothing of the guests and her bright red hair.

The reception, by contrast, had been planned under large tents with

Japanese lanterns and bright jewel tones. It reminded Genevieve of the Wizard of

Oz where everything went from black and white to color, and it gave her the

smallest shred of hope that her life with Clint would be in color.

Raffalle had offered to walk her down the aisle. He stood next to her

looking more like an aging bodyguard than a father figure.

He leaned close to her ear. “I think you know a lot more about this

family than you should.” Her back went rigid. Raffalle was the type of man who would shoot

you on any day of the year, be it your birthday, your graduati