Basile narrowed his eyes.

He looked at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve, or perhaps a bug he hadn't decided whether to crush yet.

"Suit yourself," he muttered.

He threw the covers off and stood up.

He was completely naked.

Celeste felt the heat rush to her cheeks, but she forced herself not to look away.

She watched his gaze sweep over the silk sheets where she lay, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. He deliberately walked around the bed, giving it a wide berth as if it were contaminated.

She watched him walk toward the bathroom, his movements fluid and unashamed.

He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

"You have five minutes to disappear before I call security," he said. "And don't touch anything. I have a thing about germs."

The bathroom door clicked shut.

The sound of the shower started a moment later.

Celeste scrambled off the bed.

Her legs felt weak, but they held her.

She scanned the room desperately.

Her dress from the night before-a silver cocktail number-was lying in a heap on the carpet.

It was shredded.

The zipper was torn out.

Daniela.

It had to be her sister.

She couldn't walk out of the Plaza Hotel in a torn dress.

Not with the press waiting downstairs.

She needed armor.

Celeste walked into the walk-in closet.

Rows of impeccably tailored suits hung in color-coordinated precision.

She grabbed a crisp white dress shirt from a hanger.

She slipped it on.

It swallowed her frame, the hem hitting her mid-thigh.

She buttoned it up to her neck, rolling the sleeves up her arms.

It smelled like him.

Sandalwood and expensive tobacco.

She reached into the pocket of a charcoal gray jacket hanging nearby.

Her fingers brushed against a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

She pulled them out.

She didn't smoke.

She hated the smell.

But her hands were shaking again.

She needed to do something with them.

She lit a cigarette, taking a shallow drag, coughing slightly as the smoke hit her lungs.

The nicotine rush made her head spin, but it steadied her nerves.

The bathroom door opened.

Basile walked out, a white towel wrapped low around his hips.

Water droplets clung to his chest hair and trailed down his abdomen.

He stopped dead when he saw her.

Celeste was sitting in the velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other.

Smoke curled from her fingers.

She looked like a disaster, but a composed one.

Basile leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

"Is the cosplay over?" he asked, his voice dripping with mockery. "Your fiancé is waiting at the altar."

Celeste crushed the cigarette into the crystal ashtray.

She stood up.

"Bryce Colon is a piece of trash," she said.

Basile raised an eyebrow.

This was new.

The Celeste Franco he knew-or thought he knew-was a puppet, a trust fund baby who worshipped the ground Bryce walked on.

"I know you're buying up the scattered shares of Franco Group," Celeste said.

The mockery vanished from Basile's face.

His expression hardened into stone.

He pushed off the doorframe and took a step toward her.

The air in the room suddenly felt heavier.

"Who told you that?" he asked softly.

Too softly.

"It doesn't matter," Celeste said. "I own fifteen percent of the company. My grandmother left it to me in a trust that unlocks today."

She took a step toward him.

They were inches apart now.

She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

"I can give them to you," she said.

Basile reached out.

His hand was large, his fingers calloused.

He gripped her chin, tilting her face up further.

His thumb brushed against her lower lip.

"And the price?" he asked.

Celeste didn't blink.

"Marry me," she said. "Right now. Today."

Basile's grip tightened slightly.

He studied her face, searching for the lie, for the trap.

"You're high," he said. "Or you're still drunk from whatever they slipped you last night."

He let go of her chin and turned away, reaching for a pair of trousers draped over a chair.

"Get out, Celeste. Before I lose my patience."

Celeste moved.

She put herself between him and the trousers.

She looked like a cornered animal, desperate and dangerous.

"Account number 744-Bravo-X-Ray," she said. "Cayman Islands. The shell company is 'Orion Holdings'."

Basile froze.

His hand hovered over the fabric of his pants.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned back to face her.

That account was a secret.

A secret that could land him in federal prison if mishandled.

A secret only three people in the world knew.

And she wasn't one of them.

Until now.

He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time.

The fear was gone from her eyes.

In its place was something cold.

Something burning.

"Start talking," Basile said.

Basile pulled on his trousers, zipping them up with a sharp, definitive sound.

He didn't bother with a shirt yet.

He stood there, bare-chested, radiating authority.

"Where did you get those codes?" he demanded.

Celeste leaned back against the closet door, trying to maintain her facade of calm.

"I saw papers on my father's desk," she lied.

It was a weak lie.

Elmore Franco was careful.

But she couldn't tell him she had lived through his bankruptcy trial three years in the future.

Basile stared at her for a long moment.

He didn't believe her.

She could see the skepticism in the set of his jaw.

But he glanced at the Rolex on the nightstand.

"You have an hour before you're supposed to be walking down the aisle at St. Patrick's," he said.

"I'm not going to St. Patrick's," Celeste said. "I'm going to City Hall."

She held his gaze.

"With you."

Basile was silent.

The silence stretched, tense and brittle.

Then, he reached for the phone on the wall.

He dialed a single digit.

"Alfredo," he said into the receiver. "Bring up the box."

He hung up.

Celeste let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"What box?" she asked.

Basile ignored her.

He walked past her into the closet and selected a white dress shirt.

He put it on, buttoning it with precise, efficient movements.

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," Basile called out.

An older man with silver hair and a pristine uniform walked in.

He carried a large, flat white box tied with a black ribbon.

He saw Celeste standing there in Basile's oversized shirt.

His expression didn't flicker.

"Good morning, sir. Miss," Alfredo said with a polite nod.

He placed the box on the bed and retreated, closing the door softly behind him.

Basile gestured to the box with his chin.

"Open it."

Celeste walked over to the bed.

Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon.

She lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was a dress.

It was white.

Vintage.

Tea-length, with long lace sleeves and a high neck.

Celeste gasped.

She reached out and touched the fabric.

It was silk crepe.

"This..." she whispered.

She pulled the dress out.

It was identical to a sketch she had drawn in her junior year of design school.

A sketch she had lost.

A sketch she had never shown anyone.

She looked up at Basile, her eyes wide with confusion.

"How do you have this?" she asked.

Basile was adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror.

He caught her eye in the reflection.

For a second, just a split second, something softened in his face.

Then the mask slammed back down.

"My acquisition firm bought out the parent company that sponsored your university's design competition last year," he said indifferently. "This was in their asset portfolio. An interesting design. I had it commissioned. It was gathering dust."

It was a lie.

She knew it was a lie.

Basile Delgado didn't acquire companies for student portfolios.

And he certainly didn't have dresses made from them just to let them gather dust.

"Put it on," he said. "Unless you want to get married in my shirt."

Celeste took the dress into the bathroom.

She slipped it on.

It fit perfectly.

Not just well.

Perfectly.

It hugged her waist, the lace sleeves ending exactly at her wrists.

It was as if he had her measurements memorized.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked like a bride.

But not the bride Bryce wanted her to be.

She looked like herself.

She walked back out into the bedroom.

Basile was putting on his suit jacket.

He stopped when he saw her.

His hands stilled on the lapels.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

The air between them crackled with something that wasn't just business.

"Grab your ID, Miss Franco," Basile said, his voice rougher than before.

He grabbed his car keys from the dresser.

"If this is a trap," he said, walking toward the door, "you will regret the day you were born."

"I already do," Celeste murmured.

She followed him out.

The elevator ride down was silent.

Celeste watched their reflections in the polished metal doors.

They looked like a power couple.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

Matches made in hell.

The doors opened.

The lobby manager bowed.

Basile didn't acknowledge him.

He gripped Celeste's wrist.

His hand was warm, his grip firm but not painful.

He led her out the side exit, toward a sleek black Maybach idling at the curb.

The Maybach tore through the streets of Manhattan.

Basile drove like he did everything else-aggressively, but with total control.

Celeste sat in the passenger seat.

Her phone was vibrating incessantly against her thigh.

Bryce.

Dad.

Ophelia.

Daniela.

The names flashed on the screen like a countdown to a bomb detonation.

Basile glanced over, his eyes on the road but seeing everything.

"You going to answer that?"

Celeste looked at the screen.

"Dead people don't answer phones," she said.

She held the power button down until the screen went black.

She tossed the phone into the glove compartment.

Basile's lips quirked up at the corner.

It wasn't a smile, but it was close.

He pulled the car up to the VIP entrance of the City Clerk's office.

Two men in dark suits were waiting by the curb.

Lawyers.

Basile's legal team.

They moved with military precision as Basile stepped out of the car.

One opened Celeste's door.

Another handed Basile a folder.

"Everything is prepared, Mr. Delgado," the lawyer said. "The judge is waiting in chambers."

Basile nodded.

He didn't wait in line.

He didn't fill out forms.

He walked through the metal detectors without breaking stride, the guards nodding him through.

Celeste hurried to keep up with his long legs.

They entered a private office.

A judge in black robes stood up, looking nervous.

"Mr. Delgado," the judge said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "An honor."

Basile threw the paperwork on the desk.

"Skip the speech," he said. "Just the vows."

The ceremony was a blur.

No flowers.

No music.

Just the hum of the air conditioner and the scratch of a pen.

"Do you, Celeste Franco..."

Celeste looked at Basile.

He was looking down at her, his face unreadable.

This was madness.

She was marrying the enemy.

But the enemy was the only one offering her a sword.

"I do," she said.

"Do you, Basile Delgado..."

Basile paused.

The silence in the room grew heavy.

Celeste's heart hammered against her ribs.

Was he going to back out?

Was this just a cruel game to humiliate her?

Basile's eyes darkened.

He took her hand.

His thumb pressed into her palm.

"I do," he said.

His voice resonated in her chest.

They signed the papers.

The clerk stamped the certificate with a heavy thud.

Celeste reached for her copy.

Basile's hand shot out.

He snatched the certificate before she could touch it.

"Hey!" Celeste protested.

Basile folded the document and slid it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Right over his heart.

He handed a second copy to one of the lawyers, a man named Vance. "Get this digitized and sent to the asset in place. Now."

He leaned in close, invading her personal space.

He smelled of danger and salvation.

"There is no divorce in my world, Celeste," he whispered. "Only widowhood. Do you understand?"

A shiver ran down her spine.

It wasn't fear.

It was something darker, something electric.

"I understand," she said.

One of the lawyers stepped forward with another thick document.

"The share transfer agreement, Mrs. Delgado," he said.

Basile held up a hand.

"Not yet," he said.

Celeste looked at him in surprise.

"I thought that was the deal," she said.

"It is," Basile said. "But first, we have a wedding to crash."

He offered her his arm.

It was a courtly gesture, at odds with his threatening words.

"Shall we?"

Celeste looked at his arm.

Then she looked at his face.

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

She felt the hard muscle beneath the fine wool of his suit.

"Let's go burn it down," she said.