CHAPTER 2
1197 Words
SERAPHINA’S POV
The doors swung open. Camera flashes exploded in my face.
"Smile," Killian said. His hand clamped onto my lower back, his fingers pressing into the heavy lace. "Everyone is watching."
I forced the corners of my mouth up. I kept my lips sealed. If I spoke too loudly, my voice would give me away. Isabella’s voice was a high, breathy purr. Mine was naturally lower, flat and dry.
"You're grinding your teeth," he noted.
"I'm fine," I muttered, barely moving my lips.
We stepped into the ballroom. The music was loud, bass thumping beneath the polite chatter of three hundred billionaires and socialites. A waiter passed by with a tray. Killian reached out, grabbed two glasses of champagne, and shoved one into my hand.
"Drink," he ordered.
"I don't want it."
"I didn't ask what you wanted. We have an audience. Drink it."
I took a sip. It tasted like battery acid going down my dry throat.
"Well. If it isn't the bride."
I turned. Chloe Vance stood there, looking me up and down. She wore a red slip dress that barely covered her, holding a martini. She hated Isabella. The feeling was mutual.
"Chloe," I nodded once.
"I have to admit, I'm stunned," Chloe laughed, stepping closer. "I heard the rumors about your dad’s little financial problem, but I didn't think he’d actually sell you off to cover his bad bets. How much did you go for? Twenty million?"
Killian stood perfectly still beside me. He didn't defend me. He was waiting to see what I would do. Isabella would have thrown her drink. She would have screamed and caused a scene for the cameras.
I took a step forward, right into Chloe's personal space.
"Twenty million," I said, my voice dead calm. "That’s right. And even with a price tag on my head, I'm still the one wearing the ring from the man you’ve been throwing yourself at for the last three years."
Chloe’s smirk vanished. Her face flushed an ugly, blotchy red. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I said. "You showed up to my wedding to call me a literal transaction, Chloe? Have some class."
Chloe opened her mouth, snapped it shut, and spun around, storming off toward the open bar.
Killian let out a short, sharp laugh. "Vicious. I didn't know you had it in you."
"It's been a long day."
"Put the glass down."
"Why?"
"We're dancing."
"No, I don't want to—"
He took the glass right out of my hand, set it on a passing tray, and pulled me onto the dance floor. The crowd parted instantly. The band shifted, playing a slow, heavy waltz.
He pulled me flush against his chest. There was absolutely zero space between us. His hand spread wide across my spine, his grip completely unyielding. I had to look up to meet his eyes.
"You're stiff as a board," he said into my ear.
"I hate being stared at."
"Since when? You live for attention. You called the paparazzi on yourself last Tuesday when you were shopping."
"Today is different."
He spun me sharply. I stumbled, my feet tangling in the heavy hem of the dress, but he caught me, hauling me right back against him.
"Watch your step," he warned.
"I'm trying to keep up. You're moving too fast."
"You need to relax," he murmured. "Think about the honeymoon. It'll be quiet. I booked the trip we discussed."
I froze. Honeymoon? Isabella hadn't mentioned a honeymoon to me. My father hadn't mentioned it either.
"Oh," I kept my voice to a whisper. "Good."
"The ski lodge in Gstaad," Killian continued, his dark eyes locked onto mine, tracking every micro-expression on my face. "The one we talked about at the gala last month. You were very specific about it."
Gstaad. Switzerland. Did Isabella even ski? I had no idea. She hated the cold.
"Right. Gstaad," I said.
"You remember," his voice dropped lower. It didn't sound romantic. It sounded like an interrogation. "You told me about that time you went with your family. The incident on the black diamond trail. You broke your wrist, didn't you?"
My mind raced. Isabella had never broken a bone in her life. She refused to do anything that might leave a scar.
He was testing me.
"I..." I swallowed hard. "It's a blur."
"A broken wrist is a blur?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Why not? You couldn't stop talking about it last month. You said the cast ruined your whole winter wardrobe."
He was pushing. He wasn't going to let it go. If I answered wrong, it was over.
"My head," I said abruptly. I stopped moving and put my hand to my temple.
Killian stopped. "What?"
"My head is killing me." I squeezed my eyes shut. "The lights. The cameras. I'm getting a migraine."
He stared down at me. His expression didn't change. He didn't look concerned. He looked right through me.
"A migraine."
"Yes. I can't see straight. I need to sit down."
"Are you saying you can't handle your own reception?"
"I'm in pain, Killian. Please."
Silence stretched between us. The music kept playing. People were staring, whispering behind their hands.
Finally, his jaw tightened.
"Alright," he said. "Let's get you out of here."
"I can just go to the bridal suite and lie down for a few—"
"No. If you're sick, I'm taking you home. Now."
He didn't wait for me to argue. He grabbed my arm and steered me off the dance floor.
My father intercepted us near the exit doors. He looked completely panicked, a glass of scotch shaking in his hand. "Killian! Where are you taking her?"
"She has a headache, Arthur. We’re leaving."
We walked out the heavy doors and into the cool night air. A black limo was already waiting at the curb. The driver scrambled out and opened the door. Killian practically shoved me inside. I dragged the massive layers of lace and tulle in after me, taking up most of the back seat.
Killian got in. The door slammed shut.
The privacy partition between us and the driver rolled up with a quiet mechanical hum.
The limo pulled away from the curb. I stared out the tinted window, watching the streetlights blur by. My heart was beating so fast I felt sick to my stomach.
Killian sat back against the leather seat. He poured himself a drink from the small bar console. He didn't look at me.
I didn't say a word. I kept my face turned toward the window.
Finally, he turned his head.
"Isabella never went to Gstaad," he said.
My blood ran completely cold. I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
"She hates the snow," Killian continued, his voice perfectly even, taking a slow sip of his drink. "And she certainly never broke her wrist."
I squeezed my eyes shut. My hands gripped the heavy lace of the dress until my knuckles ached.
He leaned forward slightly. The ambient light from the passing streetlamps caught the sharp angles of his face. He wasn't angry. He was completely, terrifyingly calm.
"You're much quieter than your sister," Killian said. "Seraphina."
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