The black Lincoln sedan crunched over the gravel driveway of the Walter family estate on Long Island. Keenan got out first, then held the door for Cheyenne, a perfect imitation of a gentleman. They walked toward the grand entrance, hand in hand.

Aracely's soul lingered by the car, the sight of them together a nauseating parody.

Through the large bay window, she could hear her mother's shrill voice.

"I can't believe it! Aracely, that ungrateful child, faking an illness and running off! She's humiliated this family! Humiliated the Rosses!"

The words were like tiny needles in Aracely's consciousness. Not a shred of concern. Only anger at the social inconvenience.

Keenan pushed the door open.

Brenda Walter's face instantly transformed, her features rearranging into a mask of fawning sympathy. "Keenan, my dear boy! I am so, so sorry about Aracely, she—"

"It doesn't matter," Keenan cut her off. "She's in the past." He squeezed Cheyenne's hand, a deliberate, public gesture.

Brenda's eyes darted between their joined hands, and a greedy, calculating light sparked in her eyes.

"I've decided to marry Cheyenne," Keenan announced, his voice echoing in the marble-floored hall. "Next weekend."

Brenda's jaw dropped. The shock was quickly replaced by unadulterated joy. The Ross fortune, the Ross name—it would all stay connected to the Walter family.

"Oh, Keenan!" she gushed, rushing forward to hug Cheyenne, who feigned a bashful surprise.

I'm dead, Mother, Aracely's soul shrieked at the woman who had given her life. Your other daughter murdered me, and you're celebrating.

But her voice was only silence.

"The wedding will be at St. Patrick's Cathedral," Keenan continued, taking a seat on the sofa as if he owned the place. "I want every newspaper in New York to cover it."

"Of course, of course! Whatever you want!" Brenda chirped, practically vibrating with excitement.

Keenan slid a document across the coffee table. A prenuptial agreement. "Sign it."

Brenda didn't even glance at the pages. She snatched a pen and signed her name with a flourish, a mother eagerly selling off her second daughter.

Cheyenne picked up the document, her eyes scanning the clauses, a hungry look on her face. Keenan watched her, a flicker of contempt in his gaze.

He stood and walked to the window, staring out at the rain that had begun to fall. Aracely drifted to his side, peering at his reflection in the dark glass. He didn't look like a happy groom-to-be. He looked like a man possessed.

He spoke, his voice so low it was barely a breath. "I dare you to show your face, Aracely. I dare you."

And she understood. This wedding wasn't for Cheyenne. It was for her. A spectacular, public trap designed to wound her, to smoke her out of hiding. A grand performance of cruelty.

Cheyenne came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "We're going to be so happy."

He didn't move. He just stared at their two reflections in the glass, his expression as cold and hard as the rain-streaked window.

Aracely looked at him, at the madness in his eyes, and made a decision. She wouldn't fade away. She would stay. She would watch this whole, monstrous charade play out to its bitter end.

The VIP suite at the Vera Wang flagship store was a sea of white tulle and silk. Cheyenne stood on a small pedestal, preening in front of a three-way mirror. The wedding gown she wore was a confection of lace and pearls, with a train that spilled across the plush carpet.

She looked like a princess. A triumphant usurper.

Aracely's soul stood beside her, a dark shadow in the bright room. In her mind, she was wearing the red dress. The one Keenan had called the color of a wound.

Keenan sat on a velvet sofa, swirling a glass of whiskey, his eyes cold and detached as he watched the spectacle.

"This is the one," Cheyenne declared, turning to him with a brilliant smile. "It's just like the one Aracely always dreamed of."

A cruel smirk touched Keenan's lips. "She never had the good fortune to wear it."

The words were a casual, brutal dismissal of Aracely's entire existence.

Just then, Keenan's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Aracely saw the message. An unsaved number.

You want the truth? East River docks. Midnight. Come alone.

Keenan's expression didn't change, but a new tension entered his shoulders. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.