Forbidden Heart.

“Miss Harper, if you move again, this pin is going straight into your brain." Elizabeth forced herself to sit still. “Then I'll stop," she said. The stylist laughed and fixed the last crystal in her hair. “Done. You look like you walked out of a magazine. Go downstairs, smile, and marry the richest man in the city. Easy." “Tonight is just the engagement," Elizabeth said, but her voice sounded far away. When the stylist stepped aside, Elizabeth faced the mirror. The woman in the reflection wore a pale gold gown and diamonds. Her hair was swept up. Her makeup was perfect. She looked calm. Happy. Elizabeth didn't feel calm or happy. Still, she had made herself come. When she was at her most desperate—after the funeral, when the apartment felt like an echo and the future felt like a threat—James had pulled her into his arms and asked her to marry him. The proposal hadn't healed her grief, but it had given her something to hold onto: the idea that love could be a shelter, not a distraction. That fragile hope was what had carried her to this night. Six months ago, her mother had ended her own life. Everyone said the illness had been terminal, that the treatment was torture, that her mother had only chosen the quickest door out of pain. Elizabeth heard the words and nodded, because arguing with grief-stricken relatives and solemn doctors felt impossible. But what stayed with her was not any medical speech. It was the morning she had witnessed it. She remembered waking to the sound of water running. Her mother had been restless for weeks, walking the apartment at night, smiling too hard in the daytime. “Mom?" Elizabeth had called. “Go back to sleep," her mother answered softly. Elizabeth had gotten up anyway. The bathroom door was half closed. When she pushed it open, the world changed shape. Her mother was on the floor. Elizabeth's mind had refused to understand what her eyes were seeing. The tiles were cold under her knees. She clutched her mother's shoulders, shaking her gently at first, then harder, pleading, crying, calling her name until her throat burned. No answer. The stillness on her mother's face was the kind that belonged to photographs, not to someone who had been folding Elizabeth's laundry the night before. After that day, time became a blur of funeral flowers and condolences that sounded like distant radio static. The only clear thing was James. He had been her college classmate—the quiet boy in the back row who barely looked up, until Elizabeth decided she would make him. She had pursued him with a stubbornness that embarrassed her now. Only later had she discovered he was James Young, heir to the wealthiest family in the city. By then she was already in love. When her mother was first diagnosed, James drove them to hospitals, waited through endless tests, and learned to read Elizabeth's face the way other people read weather. When the house fell silent after the funeral, he held her and said, “You still have me. I'll take care of you." Tonight was supposed to be proof of that promise. “Miss Harper?" the stylist asked. “You okay?" “I'm fine," Elizabeth said. It was the answer she had been giving everyone since the day the bathroom door had opened. The stylist smiled. “Your fiancé is downstairs greeting guests. He looks even better in person than on the news." “He's just James," Elizabeth murmured. The stylist gathered her things. “I'll leave you to breathe. The planner said Mr. Young will come up soon." “Thank you." The door closed. The noise from the banquet hall—a low buzz of music and voices—faded behind the thick walls. The dressing room felt suddenly too quiet. Elizabeth picked up her phone from the vanity. James: How are you? Elizabeth: Nervous. James: About? Elizabeth: Walking in front of everyone. Falling on my face. James: If you fall, I'll fall with you. A small smile tugged at her mouth. Elizabeth: Don't. One of us has to look cool. James: Too late. I booked an entire hotel floor. I already look ridiculous. Elizabeth shook her head. James: I'm coming up in ten. Don't run. Elizabeth: I won't. She set the phone down and drew a slow breath. Downstairs was light, music, cameras, and the future she was trying to hold onto. Upstairs, alone with her thoughts, grief pressed in like fog. A soft knock sounded at the door. “That was fast," she said, standing. “Come in." The door opened a c***k. The stylist's head appeared. “Sorry, Miss Harper. It's not Mr. Young. She said she's an old friend. I'll let you two talk." Before Elizabeth could ask who, the stylist moved aside and slipped away. The door swung wider. A woman stepped in. She wore a simple black dress that fit her perfectly. Her dark hair fell in loose waves. Pearl earrings shone at her ears. She carried no bag, no obvious gift, only a calm, steady presence that made the room feel smaller. She closed the door gently and turned toward Elizabeth. Elizabeth knew that face. She had seen it in an old photo on James's phone and in a frame in the Young family home—James as a teenager, laughing, his arm around a girl with the same eyes. “Victoria," Elizabeth whispered. The woman's lips curved. “Hello, Elizabeth." Elizabeth's heart lurched in a confused rhythm. James had told her Victoria was his childhood friend, his first love, and that they had broken up years ago because Victoria had been diagnosed with a terminal heart condition. He had never said Victoria was dead. Elizabeth had assumed she was somewhere far away, too sick to invite into anyone's happiness. But Victoria had been ill. That had mattered. Elizabeth had swallowed her pride and told herself compassion was part of love. Now compassion felt naïve. “You look… well," Elizabeth said at last. “I am." “This is my engagement party," Elizabeth said carefully. “If you came to see James, you should speak to him downstairs." “I came to see you," Victoria replied, almost gently. Elizabeth's fingers tightened around the back of the chair. She studied the woman in front of her—healthy color, steady breath, eyes too bright to be harmless. A cold unease spread through Elizabeth's chest. “What do you want from me?" she asked. Victoria's gaze flicked over the veil, the bouquet, the ring box waiting on the table like a heartbeat made visible. “To congratulate you," she said. Elizabeth didn't believe her. Yet she could not bring herself to be rude. Not when the shadow of illness had once made Victoria untouchable in Elizabeth's mind. “I won't pretend we're friends," Elizabeth said. “But I do hope you're doing better. Truly." “Such a kind answer," Victoria murmured. The words sounded like praise and warning at once. She took a step closer. “And you should know," Elizabeth added, forcing steadiness into her voice, “that whatever happened between you and James is in the past. I'm not threatened by history." Victoria smiled as if Elizabeth had offered her a joke. “History," she repeated. “Yes. That's one word for it." A provocative smile curved across her lips. “I have a gift for you," she said.