The replacement bride

Chapter Two — The Door I Wasn't Supposed to Open

I had learned something about people who knew they were losing an argument.

They started talking faster.

My mother did it.

My aunt did it.

The wedding planner did it too, although in her case, she had the added disadvantage of crying while talking.

Lucian didn't.

He simply stood there.

Watching me.

I hated that.

"Move," I said.

He didn't.

I looked at him properly for the first time since he'd told me Vivienne had been missing since last night.

He was younger than I'd expected.

Not young, exactly.

Just not old enough to have the kind of expression he wore.

There was something restrained about him. Like every reaction had to pass through a filter before it reached his face.

Even now, with his fiancée missing and a wedding falling apart around him, he looked annoyingly composed.

I pointed toward the doors.

"I need to leave."

"I know."

"Then move."

He glanced at the two men standing near the entrance.

They immediately stepped aside.

I frowned.

So that was easy.

I walked past him.

"Elara."

I stopped without turning.

"What?"

"You're not going alone."

I looked over my shoulder.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm coming with you."

"No."

"You don't know where you're going."

"I have the address."

"That doesn't mean you know what you'll find there."

I turned fully.

"Neither do you."

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth moved.

It wasn't a smile.

More like he'd found my answer interesting.

"You've always been stubborn."

My stomach tightened.

There it was again.

Always.

I took a step toward him.

"Stop saying things like that."

"Like what?"

"Things that make it sound like you know me."

He said nothing.

I waited.

Nothing.

I was beginning to understand that Lucian's silence wasn't accidental.

He used it.

People filled silence when they were uncomfortable.

They explained too much.

They corrected themselves.

They revealed things they hadn't intended to reveal.

Lucian didn't give anyone the opportunity.

Which meant I'd have to find another way.

Fine.

I was a journalist.

Finding another way was literally my job.

I turned and walked outside.

He followed.

---

The morning air was warmer than I'd expected.

The wedding venue was surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges and white flowers, the kind of landscaping that looked beautiful from a distance and expensive up close.

A black car waited at the entrance.

I walked toward it.

Lucian opened the passenger door.

I stared at him.

"I can open a car door."

"I didn't say you couldn't."

"Then why did you open it?"

"Because it's open."

I looked at him.

He looked back.

I got into the car.

Not because he'd won.

Because I was tired.

He walked around to the driver's side.

I immediately frowned.

"You're driving?"

"Yes."

"I thought you had security."

"I do."

"Then let them drive."

He started the engine.

"They're behind us."

Of course they were.

I leaned back against the seat.

For the first few minutes, neither of us spoke.

I watched the road.

Then I looked at him.

"How long have you known my sister?"

"Long enough."

I sighed.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer I have."

"You know I'm a journalist, right?"

His eyes remained on the road.

"Yes."

That caught me off guard.

"You know what I do?"

"I know what you write."

I turned toward him.

"What have I written?"

"Your article about the procurement contract at St. Agnes."

I stared.

That article had been published three months ago.

It wasn't even my most popular piece.

"You read it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I found it useful."

"Useful for what?"

He didn't answer.

I reached for my phone.

My actual phone this time.

I opened my notes.

"Okay."

He glanced at me.

I started typing.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking notes."

"About?"

"You."

He looked amused.

"That's a terrible idea."

"Why?"

"You'll miss important things."

"Such as?"

"The fact that you're sitting in a wedding dress in my car."

I looked down at myself.

Right.

I'd forgotten.

The dress.

The veil.

The bouquet still sitting on my lap.

I groaned.

"I hate today."

"I noticed."

I looked out the window.

"Did Vivienne seem strange yesterday?"

"Yes."

I turned back.

He'd answered so quickly that I almost missed it.

"How?"

"She asked too many questions."

"What kind?"

"Questions about my work."

I straightened.

"What exactly do you do?"

He looked at me.

"You know."

"Apparently I don't."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "Risk management."

I waited.

"That's it?"

"That's what I do."

"What does that actually mean?"

"I help people identify problems before those problems become disasters."

I looked at him.

"That sounds vague."

"It's supposed to."

"Because?"

"Some of my clients prefer privacy."

I wrote that down.

He noticed.

"You're actually taking notes."

"I told you."

"What are you planning to do with them?"

"Figure out why my sister disappeared."

His hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel.

It was tiny.

If I hadn't been watching, I would've missed it.

I didn't.

"Why did Vivienne ask about your work?"

"She thought one of my clients was being watched."

"By whom?"

"I don't know."

"Did she tell you who?"

"No."

"Then why did you think it was important?"

"Because Vivienne didn't usually worry about things she couldn't prove."

I stopped writing.

That sounded like my sister.

Vivienne had always been careful.

She didn't accuse people without evidence.

She didn't send angry messages.

She didn't lose control.

If she thought something was wrong, she collected information first.

Then she acted.

"What was she investigating?"

"I don't know."

"You're lying."

His eyes flicked toward me.

I continued.

"You answered too quickly."

"I've known your sister for two years. I know when she's worried. I don't necessarily know what she's worried about."

That answer sounded more honest.

I hated that I believed him.

I looked back at the road.

"Did she tell you she was afraid?"

"No."

"Did she tell you she wanted to cancel the wedding?"

"No."

"Then why was she gone?"

He was silent.

I waited.

Finally, he said,

"Because someone wanted her gone."

I turned sharply.

"What?"

He didn't look at me.

"You heard me."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know someone wanted her gone?"

"Because people don't disappear from secured locations without help."

I stared at him.

"Secured locations?"

He looked at me.

"Vivienne wasn't staying at the hotel."

My eyebrows pulled together.

"Then where was she?"

He hesitated.

"At my house."

I stopped breathing for half a second.

"She was staying at your house?"

"Yes."

"And my family knew?"

"I assume so."

"I didn't."

"I know."

That sentence again.

I know.

I hated it.

I hated how often he said it.

"Why was she staying there?"

"Because she asked me to keep her somewhere private."

"From whom?"

"I don't know."

"You keep saying you don't know."

"Because I don't."

"You're a terrible liar."

He gave me a brief look.

"And you're a terrible passenger."

"What does that mean?"

"You've asked thirty-seven questions in twelve minutes."

I almost smiled.

Almost.

Then I remembered why we were in the car.

"Take me to your house."

"We're not going there."

"Why?"

"Because that's not where the location leads."

I looked at the phone.

He was right.

The location Vivienne had sent was in the opposite direction.

"Then where are we going?"

"The old road."

My stomach dropped.

"The place where you found her car?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell the police?"

"I did."

"And?"

"They're there."

"Then why are we going?"

"Because there are things the police don't know."

I looked at him.

"Like what?"

He didn't answer.

I opened the door handle.

He glanced at me.

"What are you doing?"

"If you don't tell me, I'm getting out."

"We're moving."

"I'll take my chances."

He slowed the car.

"Elara."

I folded my arms.

"Talk."

He sighed.

It was the first time I'd seen him look genuinely tired.

"Vivienne left something in the car."

"What?"

"I don't know."

I stared.

"You're kidding."

"I haven't seen it."

"Then how do you know she left something?"

"Because she called me at 1:13 this morning."

I sat up.

"You spoke to her?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

He looked at me.

"She said, 'If anything happens to me, don't let Elara come looking.'"

The words hit differently.

I swallowed.

"What else?"

"Nothing."

"She just said that?"

"Then the call ended."

"Why didn't you call my family?"

"I did."

"And?"

"No one answered."

I looked out the window.

My mother.

My aunt.

Everyone.

Nobody had mentioned this.

My phone vibrated.

I checked it.

A message from my mother.

Come back.

I stared at it.

Then another appeared.

Please, Elara.

I didn't reply.

---

The old road was nothing like the rest of the city.

The buildings became fewer.

The shops disappeared.

The road narrowed until the smooth asphalt turned into something cracked and uneven.

Lucian's security vehicle followed us from a distance.

I noticed because it had been following us for the last ten minutes.

"Do you always have someone following you?"

"Yes."

"That's exhausting."

"It's useful."

"What's the difference?"

He looked at me.

"Depends on the day."

We eventually stopped near a row of abandoned warehouses.

My eyes immediately went to the black car parked near the trees.

Vivienne's car.

I knew it before Lucian said anything.

It was the same silver hatchback she'd complained about for three years because she wanted something newer.

The driver's door was open.

One of the windows was cracked.

I got out.

Lucian caught my wrist.

"Don't touch anything."

I looked at his hand.

He released me.

"Sorry."

I walked closer.

The car looked abandoned.

But not stolen.

The keys were gone.

There was no blood.

No broken glass.

Nothing that screamed disaster.

Just a handbag sitting on the passenger seat.

Vivienne's.

I pointed.

"That's hers."

"I know."

"How?"

"Because I bought it."

I looked at him.

"You bought my sister's handbag?"

"It was a gift."

Something about that bothered me.

Not because it was romantic.

Because Vivienne had never mentioned him buying her anything.

I moved closer to the car.

"Wait."

Lucian stopped.

I crouched beside the driver's door.

There was something caught beneath it.

A small piece of paper.

I reached for it.

Lucian immediately said,

"Don't."

I looked up.

"Why?"

"Because you don't know where it came from."

"That's paper, not a grenade."

"That's exactly the kind of assumption that gets people hurt."

I stood.

"Fine. You pick it up."

He put on a pair of gloves from his jacket and carefully retrieved it.

He unfolded it.

His face changed.

"What?"

He didn't answer.

I stepped closer.

"Lucian."

He handed it to me.

It was a receipt.

A hotel receipt.

I read the name.

Then the date.

Yesterday.

My eyes moved lower.

Room number.

417.

I looked at Lucian.

"Was Vivienne here?"

"No."

"Then why does she have a receipt from this hotel?"

"I don't know."

I stared at the paper.

There was something written on the back.

Three words.

I read them aloud.

"Ask about 417."

Lucian went completely still.

I looked at him.

"You know what that means."

"No."

"You're lying again."

He took the receipt from me.

His eyes remained on the writing.

Then he looked toward the warehouses.

"Get in the car."

"Why?"

"Because we're leaving."

"No."

"Elara."

"I want answers."

"So do I."

That stopped me.

His expression wasn't cold anymore.

He looked genuinely unsettled.

"Why?"

He looked at the receipt again.

"Because room 417 is in the hotel where Vivienne was supposed to meet me last night."

My mouth fell open.

"What?"

He nodded.

"She told me she had something to show me."

"What was it?"

"I don't know."

"Then why didn't you go?"

"I did."

"When?"

"Eleven forty."

"And?"

"She wasn't there."

I looked at the receipt.

"Who was in room 417?"

"I don't know."

"Did you check?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He looked directly at me.

"Because the room was already occupied."

A strange feeling moved through me.

"By whom?"

Lucian didn't answer.

My phone vibrated again.

This time, it wasn't my mother's number.

It was an unknown number.

I opened the message.

There was only one line.

You should not have come looking for her.

I showed Lucian.

He read it once.

Then again.

"Give me the phone."

"No."

"Elara."

"No."

His expression hardened.

"Give it to me."

I pulled it away.

"You don't get to order me around."

He stepped closer.

"I'm not ordering you."

"Then what?"

"I'm telling you that whoever sent this knows where you are."

I looked around.

The empty road suddenly felt much smaller.

The warehouses seemed closer.

The trees seemed darker.

I hated that he was right.

Another message arrived.

I opened it.

My hands went cold.

It wasn't a warning this time.

It was a photograph.

Vivienne.

She was sitting somewhere I didn't recognize.

Alive.

Her hair was messy.

She wasn't smiling.

And taped to the wall behind her was a piece of paper.

Four numbers had been written on it.

417.

I looked at Lucian.

He had seen the photograph.

For the first time since I'd met him, the calm disappeared completely.

"That's not possible," he whispered.

I looked at him.

"What?"

He took the phone from my hand.

His eyes stayed on the picture.

"That room..."

He stopped.

"What about it?"

He looked at me.

"That's my old office."

My heart sank.

"Your office?"

He nodded.

"I haven't used that room in three years."

I looked back at the photograph.

Vivienne was sitting in a room that apparently no longer existed.

Then another message appeared.

This one wasn't from an unknown number.

It came from Vivienne's phone.

I opened it.

Three words.

Ask Lucian why.

I looked up.

He was already looking at me.

Neither of us spoke.

For the first time, I wasn't sure which possibility frightened me more.

That Lucian was hiding something from me—

or that my sister had known all along that he was.