Dallas Cole POV:

"Smile," Antone whispered against the shell of my ear, his breath hot and moist. "You look like you're marching to the gallows."

"I am," I muttered, keeping my gaze fixed on the pavement.

His hand clamped harder around my waist, fingers biting into the delicate silk of the dress he had purchased for me only an hour ago. We were walking down Fifth Avenue, the sun glaring off the shop windows with the harsh, unforgiving intensity of an interrogation lamp.

"Chelsea is watching from the car," he said, his voice dropping to that low, charming pitch that used to make me feel safe. Now, it merely made my skin crawl.

"If you look miserable, she'll think you're still in love with Desmond. And if she thinks that, she might call off the wedding. And if she calls off the wedding, Father will not be pleased with you."

He stopped abruptly and turned me toward him, brushing a stray hair from my forehead with a tenderness that was entirely performative. To anyone passing by, we looked like the picture of young love.

"Do you want to be punished, Dallas?"

"No," I whispered.

"Then kiss me on the cheek."

I hesitated, my stomach churning with nausea.

He squeezed my waist. Hard enough to bruise.

I leaned up on tiptoes and pressed my lips to his jaw. He smelled of expensive cologne masking something rotten-a scent of moral decay.

"Perfect," a voice called out.

I pulled back as if burned. Desmond and Chelsea were stepping out of a black SUV at the curb. Chelsea was beaming, looking like a vision in cream chiffon, while Desmond looked like a thunderhead about to break.

"I told you they were cute together!" Chelsea squealed, linking her arm through Desmond's. She dragged him toward us.

Desmond didn't look at Antone. His dark eyes were locked on the spot where Antone's hand possessed my hip. A muscle in his jaw ticked violently.

"Shopping?" Chelsea asked, eyeing my bags.

"Antone is spoiling me," I lied, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.

"We should go together," Chelsea decided instantly. She looked up at Desmond, batting her lashes. "Babe, you promised to help me pick out the reception dress. Dallas can model the bridesmaid options."

"No," Desmond said sharply.

"Why not?" Chelsea pouted, tilting her head. "Unless... it bothers you?"

She let the question hang in the humid air. It was a trap. If Desmond refused, he admitted he still cared. If he agreed, he had to watch his brother touch me.

Desmond's eyes went flat, devoid of light. He adjusted his cufflinks with precise, jerky movements.

"Fine," he said. "Let's go."

We entered the bridal salon like a funeral procession. The staff fluttered around Chelsea, offering crystal flutes of champagne and hollow compliments. I was directed to a rack of shapeless pastel dresses in the back, banished from the spotlight.

"Actually," Chelsea called out from the velvet podium, stopping the salesgirl. "Put Dallas in the A-line. The white one. I want to see how the fabric moves on a body before I try it."

The salesgirl hesitated, glancing between us. "The bridal gown?"

"Yes," Chelsea said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "She's the same size as me. Roughly."

I looked at Desmond. He was sitting on a tufted leather couch, swirling a glass of scotch, staring into the amber liquid. He didn't stop her.

"Do it," Antone whispered, nudging me toward the dressing room with a sharp prod. "Be a good doll."

Ten minutes later, I stepped out.

The dress was magnificent. Lace sleeves, a plunging back, and a train that pooled around my feet like spilled liquid moonlight. I stood on the pedestal, the overhead lights blinding me.

I looked in the mirror. I looked like a bride.

I just wasn't theirs.

Antone walked up to the pedestal. He wasn't looking at my face, though. He was holding his phone low, angling it so he could snap a photo of my body. I followed his gaze. He wasn't photographing me; he was photographing the dress, imagining Chelsea inside it.

"Beautiful," Antone murmured, his voice thick with a perverse sort of appreciation.

"It is," Chelsea agreed, sipping her champagne. "Although, it might be a bit tight in the hips for her. She has... wider proportions."

Desmond stood abruptly.

The crystal tumbler in his hand didn't just break; it shattered under the crushing force of his grip.

The sound silenced the room instantly. Amber liquid mixed with bright red blood dripped from his hand onto the pristine white carpet.

"Get it off her," Desmond said. His voice was a low, dangerous growl.

"Desmond, you're bleeding!" Chelsea gasped, rushing to him.

He ignored her completely. He walked toward me, stepping heedlessly onto the train of the dress. He looked at Antone, then up at me. His eyes were wild, filled with a terrifying, intoxicating mix of rage and hunger.

"Take it off," he commanded, the order leaving no room for argument. "Now."

Dallas Cole POV:

"You're making a scene," Antone said, stepping between us. He put a protective hand on my arm, executing the role of the outraged boyfriend with flawless precision.

"Don't touch her," Desmond snarled.

He shoved Antone. It wasn't a warning push. It was a strike calculated to shatter bone. Antone stumbled back, crashing violently into a rack of veils.

Desmond grabbed my wrist. His bloody hand clamped down, instantly staining the pristine white lace of my sleeve crimson.

"You think this is a game?" he hissed, jerking me off the pedestal. "You think you can play house with him in front of me?"

"You're marrying her!" I screamed back, flinging my free hand toward Chelsea, who stood frozen by the couch. "You chose this!"

"I chose power!" Desmond shouted, shaking me so hard my teeth rattled. "I didn't choose to watch my brother paw at what belongs to me!"

"I don't belong to you!"

I tried to wrench my arm free. I stepped back, forgetting the train of the dress was bunched around my feet.

I tripped.

Desmond lunged to catch me, but his hand slipped on the wet, blood-slicked lace.

I fell backward. The back of my head cracked against the sharp corner of the marble pedestal.

A sickening crack echoed through the room.

Pain exploded behind my eyes-a blinding flash of white light, followed immediately by a suffocating darkness and a throbbing, liquid heat.

I lay on the floor, the room spinning like a carousel off its axis. I felt something warm trickling down the nape of my neck.

"Dallas!" Antone shouted.

"Oh my god," Chelsea shrieked. "My dress! Is the dress ruined?"

The room went dead silent.

I blinked, trying to clear the black spots dancing in my vision. I looked up.

Desmond was standing over me. He looked at his hand, then at me, then at Chelsea. His gaze dropped to the blood blooming like a dark rose on the white silk.

For a split second, the rage vanished. I saw raw terror in his eyes. He took a frantic step toward me.

"Desmond," Chelsea said, her voice sharp as a whip. "The paparazzi are outside. If they see an ambulance..."

Desmond froze mid-step.

The panic in his gaze evaporated, replaced by a glacial void. The mask slammed back into place. The Underboss returned.

He looked at the salesgirl, who was trembling in the corner.

"Wrap the dress," Desmond said, his voice devoid of humanity. "We'll pay for it."

He turned his cold stare to Antone. "Get her up. Clean her up. Make sure she's ready for the yacht party tomorrow."

"She's bleeding, Des," Antone said, though he remained rooted to the spot, paralyzed by his brother's command.

"She has a hard head," Desmond said dismissively. He grabbed Chelsea's hand. "Let's go. We have a dinner reservation."

He walked out. He didn't look back.

I lay on the floor, listening to the bell above the door jingle cheerfully as they left.

I pushed myself up. The world tilted dangerously. I touched the back of my head, and my fingers came away wet and red.

"Miss?" the salesgirl whispered. "Should I... should I call someone?"

"No," I said. My voice sounded distant, like it was coming from the bottom of the ocean.

I stood up, swaying on my feet. I looked at the dress in the mirror. The blood from my head had soaked into the collar. The blood from Desmond's hand was smeared across the sleeve.

It looked like a crime scene.

"Pack it up," I told the girl.

"But... it's ruined."

"No," I said, staring at my macabre reflection. "It's perfect."

I pulled out the black credit card the Morgans had given me for 'essentials.'

"I'm buying it," I said, my reflection grinning back at me through the blood. "I want to wear it to my funeral."