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.

They walked down the aisle.

Together.

It was a violation of every tradition.

The bride was supposed to be walked by her father.

Or she was supposed to walk alone.

She wasn't supposed to walk with a man who was actively suing the groom's company.

A figure stepped out from the front pew.

Daniela.

She was wearing a dress that was technically a bridesmaid's dress.

But it was white.

And it was lace.

And it had a train.

It was a wedding dress in everything but name.

She blocked their path.

Her eyes were wide, brimming with fake tears.

"Celeste!" she cried out, her voice pitching perfectly to carry to the back of the church.

She reached out, trying to hug Celeste.

"Where have you been? We were so worried! Bryce has been frantic!"

Celeste sidestepped.

Daniela hugged empty air.

She stumbled slightly, her heels catching on the carpet.

She recovered quickly, leaning in close to Celeste.

"Did you enjoy your night, slut?" she hissed, her voice low enough that only they could hear. "Did you sleep it off?"

Celeste smiled.

It was a sharp, jagged smile.

"I wasn't sleeping, Dani," she said loudly. "I was taking out the trash."

Daniela blinked.

She looked at Basile.

She licked her lips, her gaze raking over him.

Even now, she couldn't help herself.

"And who is this?" she asked, putting a hand on her hip.

Basile looked at her.

He looked at the white dress.

He looked at the desperate hunger in her eyes.

"So this is the illegitimate one," he said.

He didn't whisper.

His deep voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

A collective gasp went through the church.

Daniela froze.

Her face went white, then splotchy red.

Her illegitimacy was the open secret of the Franco family.

The one thing no one ever, ever mentioned out loud.

The air crackled. The sound of a dozen camera shutters firing from the back of the church was like a volley of gunshots. Reporters who had snuck in were capturing Daniela's mortification in high-definition, their flashes reflecting in the tears welling in her eyes. The guests began to murmur, their whispers rising like a tide.

"Excuse me?" Daniela squeaked.

"Move," Basile said.

He didn't touch her.

He just walked forward.

Daniela scrambled out of the way to avoid being trampled.

She looked like a child playing dress-up next to him.

They reached the altar.

Bryce stepped forward.

He looked nervous.

He looked at Basile, then at Celeste.

"Celeste," he said, holding out his hands. "Baby. You're late. Let's... let's just get this started."

He tried to take her hand.

Basile stepped between them.

He stood like a wall of black wool and muscle.

Bryce shrank back.

The priest cleared his throat nervously.

"If everyone is seated..." the priest began.

Celeste walked past Basile.

She walked past Bryce.

She walked up the steps to the lectern where the readings were supposed to be done.

She grabbed the microphone.

It gave a high-pitched feedback whine.

Everyone covered their ears.

Celeste looked out at the sea of faces.

Friends.

Business partners.

People who had laughed at her behind her back for years.

"There will be no wedding today," she said.

Her voice was steady.

"But don't worry. I didn't come empty-handed."

She looked up at the choir loft.

She nodded.