Chapter 2

I didn't take the card.

I took a cab to my parents' house on Shore Road — still in the dress, still in the veil pins — because some small, stupid, seven-year-old part of me still believed that when it actually mattered, blood chose blood.

I was wrong about that too.

I heard them before I reached the dining room. Glasses. Laughter. My mother's voice, bright as a bell.

"—City Hall, so spontaneous, so like them—"

I pushed the doors open.

They were celebrating.

My mother. My father. My uncle Vincent. My aunt. And at the head of the table, glowing, my sister — still in white, Rafe's hand on her thigh, her ring throwing light across the good linen.

"Sera." Camilla didn't even blink. "You're still in the dress? Oh, honey."

"You," I said, and my voice shook so badly it barely carried, "were my maid of honor."

"And you," she tilted her head, "were in the way."

I went for her.

I don't remember deciding. I remember my father's arm across my chest, my mother's nails in my wrist, Camilla shrieking and folding into Rafe like I was something rabid — like I was the dangerous one in a house built on dead men.

"She's hysterical!" my mother snapped.

"I'M HYSTERICAL?" It tore out of me raw. "She married my fiancé. He hired an actor to fake my wedding. Six hundred people watched me—and you're drinking prosecco—"

"Lower your voice."

My father's tone could have frozen the harbor.

"The Ferrantes hold paper on this family." He straightened his cuffs. "Which of my daughters wears their ring is not a thing I have an opinion about. Camilla secured him. You lost him. That's the story."

I stared at him.

Twenty-seven years. Straight A's. Every Sunday dinner. Every time I'd smiled when I wanted to scream, so his associates would say what a lovely, quiet girl.

And I was a deal that fell through.

Rafe spoke for the first time. He didn't look ashamed. He looked bored.

"We'll send your things to a hotel, Sera. Let's keep it civil."

"My things." I laughed, and it came out broken. "From the apartment I decorated. For the life you were never going to live."

"Never's strong." He swirled his glass. "I considered it. Your sister just offered a better arrangement."

Arrangement.

The word snagged on something in my brain. Cold. Wrong. A splinter under the nail.

Before I could pull it out, my mother had my elbow and was steering me toward the door like a waiter removing a dropped plate.

"You'll sleep elsewhere tonight. Your sister's celebrating. You're upsetting her."

"Mom." I searched her face for one crack. One flicker. "I'm your daughter too."

She hesitated.

For one second I let myself hope.

"Then act like it," she said. "The Ferrantes are hosting Friday. Wear something nice. Smile. Don't embarrass us twice."

The door shut in my face.

I stood on the steps of the house I grew up in, in a dress worth more than a car, with nowhere on this earth to go.

My hand drifted to my stomach.

"Okay," I whispered to the only family I had left. "Okay. It's just us. I've got you."

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Miss Vitale. The offer expires at midnight.

My employer suggests one question before you delete this.

Why did Rafael Ferrante need to destroy you TODAY — when he could have simply walked away from you a year ago?

I stopped breathing.

Because that was it. That was the splinter.

Arrangement, Rafe had said. Receipt.

None of it was passion. None of it was even cruelty for its own sake. Cruelty is sloppy. This had been choreographed — the actor, the timing, the courthouse at four, the ballroom at nine.

It was scheduled.

Another message came through. An address. A time: 11:00 p.m.

Then one more line, and the hair rose on my arms in the humid summer dark:

Come alone. And Miss Vitale — congratulations on the baby.

Six people on this planet knew about the baby.

Five of them were doctors.