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.

The partition between the front and back seats of the Maybach rose with a soft whir.

They were sealed in.

The leather seats were cool, but Celeste felt feverish.

Basile opened a small refrigerator built into the console.

He pulled out a glass bottle of Evian water.

He unscrewed the cap and handed it to her.

"Drink," he ordered. "Your adrenaline is crashing."

Celeste took the bottle.

Her hands were shaking again.

She took a sip. The cold water shocked her system.

She looked at him.

He was reading something on a tablet, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he just got married to a woman he supposedly hated.

"Who brought me to the hotel last night?" she asked.

The question had been gnawing at her.

Basile didn't look up.

He tapped the screen of the tablet and turned it toward her.

It was a video feed.

Grainy, black and white security footage.

Celeste watched as a car pulled up to the service entrance of the Plaza.

Two men got out.

They opened the back door and dragged a limp body out.

Her body.

Her head lolled to the side.

She recognized one of the men.

It was the Franco family driver.

Daniela's driver.

"They tipped off the press," Basile said calmly. "There were six photographers waiting in the lobby. If you had run out of that room this morning like a scared little girl, your face would be on every tabloid cover by noon."

Celeste gripped the water bottle until her knuckles turned white.

"She wanted to destroy me," she whispered.

"Completely," Basile agreed.

He finally looked at her.

"And if I had touched you last night," he added, his voice low, "you would have been ruined. Adultery before the vows. No prenup protection."

Celeste stared at him.

He had saved her.

By doing nothing, he had saved her.

"Why didn't you?" she asked. "Why didn't you take advantage? You hate my father."

Basile took the tablet back.

He shut off the screen.

"I have standards," he said dismissively. "I don't sleep with unconscious women."

"Besides," she challenged, remembering his earlier words, "you have a thing about germs."

"That too," he said, his expression unreadable.

He was lying again.

She could feel it.

"What happens if my father tries to stop me?" she asked. "He has a temper."

Basile reached across the console.

His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist.

Right over a faint, white scar she had gotten when she was sixteen.

When Elmore had pushed her through a glass door.

Celeste flinched, pulling her hand back.

Basile's eyes narrowed on the scar.

"You are a Delgado now," he said.

His voice was terrifyingly calm.

"If he touches you, he loses a hand."

The car slowed down.

Through the tinted windows, Celeste could see the spire of the church.

A crowd of reporters swarmed the steps like ants.

Celeste took a deep breath.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of oversized black sunglasses.

She put them on.

They hid the fear in her eyes.

They hid the moisture gathering in the corners.

Basile watched her transform.

He saw her spine straighten.

He saw her jaw set.

He nodded, a small gesture of approval.

The car stopped.

The door handle clicked.

Basile got out first.

The flashbulbs erupted like a lightning storm.

He buttoned his jacket.

He turned back to the car.

He extended his hand to her.

Celeste looked at his open palm.

It was an invitation to war.

She placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed around hers, tight and possessive.

She stepped out into the blinding light.