I stopped pretending a long time ago.
Now I just performed.
Madeleine knew it. My parents knew it. The staff knew it. And still, we all went on with the dance. Every photo, every guest list, every white rose centerpiece, another link in the chain that kept me here.
The wedding was weeks away.
The date had been finalized. The guest list approved.
The press was already drafting headlines.
The Blackwell heir. The Foxfair firm. Two families of power and prestige merging beneath vaulted ceilings and custom vows.
They had no idea I was dying inside.
It’s March now.
It’s been almost five months since I first saw Ivy’s belly. Five months since my father tightened the leash, since Madeleine became my permanent shadow.
I counted eight times I tried to walk away.
Eight carefully calculated
