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.

The noise hit her like a physical blow.

"Celeste! Celeste! over here!"

"Is the wedding off?"

"Who is that man?"

"Is that... is that Basile Delgado?"

The murmur turned into a roar as the crowd recognized him.

Basile didn't flinch.

He moved his hand from her fingers to the small of her back.

His hand was large, covering her spine, pushing her forward.

It was a claim.

They walked up the stone steps of the church.

The heavy oak doors burst open.

Elmore Franco stormed out.

His face was a mask of purple rage.

He looked deranged.

"You ungrateful little bitch!" he screamed.

He didn't care about the cameras.

He didn't care about the guests peering out from the vestibule.

He charged at Celeste.

He raised his hand, his heavy gold signet ring glinting in the sun.

Celeste stood her ground.

She didn't cower.

She stared at him, daring him to do it.

The hand came down.

But it never connected.

Basile caught Elmore's wrist in mid-air.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh was loud.

Basile didn't just stop the blow.

He twisted.

Elmore yelped, his knees buckling.

Basile forced the older man down, bending his arm back at an unnatural angle.

"Careful, Elmore," Basile said.

His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the shouting of the paparazzi.

"Bones become brittle at your age."

Elmore gasped, his face draining of color.

"Let go of me!" he sputtered. "This is a family matter!"

Basile shoved him back.

Elmore stumbled, nearly falling down the stairs.

Ophelia rushed out, grabbing Elmore's arm to steady him.

She looked at Basile with pure venom.

"How dare you," she hissed. "Get security!"

"I am the security," Basile said.

He straightened his cuffs.

He looked at the reporters, who were frantically snapping photos of Elmore's humiliation.

Then he looked at Ophelia.

"And you," he said, pointing a finger at her. "Fix your lipstick. It's smudged."

Ophelia's hand flew to her mouth instinctively.

Basile turned to Celeste.

"Ready?"

Celeste looked at her father, who was cradling his wrist and glaring at her with hatred.

For the first time in her life, she didn't feel small in front of him.

She felt tall.

"Ready," she said.

Basile took her arm again.

They walked through the church doors.

The transition was jarring.

From the chaotic noise of the street to the hushed, organ-filled silence of the sanctuary.

Hundreds of heads turned.

The pews were filled with New York's elite.

They gasped.

Bryce was standing at the altar.

He looked perfect.

Perfect hair. Perfect tuxedo. Perfect smile that faltered as soon as he saw Basile.

Celeste felt a wave of nausea.

She had loved him.

In her past life, she had adored him.

Now, looking at him, she saw only a parasite in a bow tie.

Basile leaned down to her ear.

"Showtime, Mrs. Delgado," he whispered.