The enemy did not threaten the wedding anymore.He invited me to dress for it.Wear white if you want to know where Don really died.The message glowed inside Brian’s isolation case, harmless-looking beneath the clear shield and terrible enough to make every breath in the penthouse feel borrowed. White had stopped being a color. It was a costume, a code, a noose made of satin. Ronan Kade had turned it into something that followed me from bridal salons to old footage, from my mother’s torn performance dress to the wedding gown I had chosen for myself.I wanted to smash the phone.I wanted to wear black to my wedding out of spite.I wanted, most of all, to stop feeling the ghost of my mother’s costume brushing against my skin every time a man with too much power decided I belonged in white.Luca stood beside me, staring at the message with the kind of restraint that looked painful. His jaw was set, his shoulders rigid,
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