Wedding day. Morning.
The Grant estate's inner hall was filled with pure white Freud roses. I sat in the main dressing room. The makeup artist had just placed the veil over my head. My assistant had stepped out for final venue confirmation.
The room was quiet. I looked at my own reflection in the mirror, the tiara on my head.
Click.
The door opened from the outside. Then quickly locked again.
A man in an ill-fitting work uniform stood at the door. A temporary pass for the outsourced floral team hung around his neck.
Liam.
He looked terrible. His normally immaculate hair was disheveled. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He stared at my wedding gown and the sapphire necklace, his breathing turning ragged.
"Ivy." He walked toward me, step by step, his voice hoarse with a desperate, almost
