I dream of the garden again.
Ian has me pressed against the pool house wall, his hands tangled in my hair with possession that borders on violence. His lips brand my throat, teeth scraping skin hard enough to leave marks.
I can feel every breath he takes, the heat of him seeping through silk and skin, burning me from the outside in.
"I told you we'd see each other again, little princess." His voice is rough whiskey and broken promises. "Did you think I'd forgotten about you?"
"Tell me your last name," I beg, but he just smiles that crooked smile and pulls me closer. "Tell me how to find you."
"Soon." His teeth graze my pulse point, making me shudder.
"I don't have time for soon." Panic edges my voice. "In nine days, I belong to him. In nine days, I'm—"
"You'll never belong to him." His hands slide lower, possessive and sure. "You're mine, Esther. You were mine the moment I saw you in that ballroom. Mine when I tasted you in the pool house. Mine forever."
"Then save me." I'm begging now, dignity abandoned. "Please, Ian. If you're real, if any of this was real—"
"I'm coming for you." His mouth claims mine, swallowing my protests. "Count the days, princess. Count the hours. I'm coming."
I woke up gasping this morning, sheets twisted around my body, skin still burning from his phantom touch. My hand goes to my throat where his mouth had been, expecting to find marks.
Nothing but smooth skin and a pulse that won't calm down.
It's been weeks since that night in the pool house. The memory should be fading, diluted by time and reality. Instead, it's grown sharper, more vivid.
Every detail carved into my mind. The exact shade of his eyes, the way his voice dropped when he called me princess, how his hands felt both dangerous and safe.
The wedding dress fitting is torture.
I stand on a platform while seamstresses pin white silk, and all I can think about is Ian's promise that he'd never let me go if he had me. The dress is beautiful—ethereal layers of French tulle and hand-embroidered lace, a cathedral train that trails behind me like spilled milk.
It's also a shroud.
"The bodice needs to be tighter," Patricia instructs, circling me like a shark. "Cassian Greyhaven is paying a fortune for this wedding. Every detail must be perfect."
The seamstress pulls the corset strings until I can barely breathe, until I'm compressed into an hourglass shape that doesn't feel like mine. In the three-way mirror, I look like a virginal sacrifice dressed for slaughter.
Which is exactly what I am.
"What do you think about white roses?" Patricia asks, flipping through a wedding portfolio. "Or perhaps red? Blood red might make a statement."
"Black," I say without thinking.
Like the rose he sent me. Like the darkness behind his eyes.
Patricia's face pinches. "Don't be ridiculous. This isn't a funeral."
Isn't it?
But I don't say that out loud. I've learned silence is survival in my father's house.
* * *
By afternoon, desperation makes me reckless.
I corner Hannah while she's organizing my trousseau in my bedroom—packing negligees I'll never willingly wear, lingerie purchased for a stranger's pleasure.
"That man at my engagement party," I say, trying to sound casual even though my heart is hammering. "Tall, dark hair, expensive grey suit. Do you remember seeing him?"
Hannah pauses mid-fold, a silk chemise dangling from her hands. "What man, Miss?"
"The one who helped me when I was upset. He said his name was Ian."
But Hannah just shakes her head slowly, confusion clouding her features. "You came back to the house alone that night, Miss. Your dress was torn, and you told security you'd fallen in the garden. You seemed... disoriented."
My blood chills. "That's not what happened."
"It's what you told security." Her voice is gentle, concerned. "Are you feeling alright? Should I call Dr. Morrison?"
"No." The word comes out too sharp. "No, I'm fine. Just... confused about that night."
But I'm not confused, I remember every detail. The weight of his jacket on my shoulders, the taste of his bourbon, the way his hands felt on my skin.
He was real.
Wasn't he?
I try Father's assistant next, catching Marco between phone calls about shipments and territories. "I need the guest list from my engagement party. Every single name."
He pulls it up on his tablet without question—I'm Vincent Castellano's eldest daughter, after all. We scroll through hundreds of entries. Every guest is accounted for, matched to a family connection, a business relationship, a specific purpose.
No Ian. No one unaccounted for. No mysterious strangers in grey suits.
My last hope is the security footage. But the cameras covering the garden and pool house mysteriously malfunction during that exact time period. Twenty minutes of static, then I appear, walking alone back to the house.
Ian is a ghost. No record, no trace, like he never existed at all.
By evening, I'm questioning my own sanity.
Did I hallucinate him? Create a fantasy man in my moment of greatest need? Build a savior from bourbon and moonlight because the alternative—accepting my fate—was too horrible to face?
Maybe I'm going insane. Maybe this is how it starts—beautiful delusions that feel more real than reality.
That’s when Rafael Greyhaven—mu future husband brother—arrives to discuss final wedding arrangements. He's everything the rumors promise: cold, precise, with eyes that catalog exits and weapons even in our dining room.
He reviews security protocols with military efficiency, discussing my future like I'm cargo being transferred.
"The ceremony will be at St. Patrick's Cathedral," he tells Father. "Two hundred guests, no more. Metal detectors at every entrance."
"Seems excessive," Patricia murmurs.
"Six attempts have been made on my brother's life this year alone." Rafael's smile is winter. "We don't take chances."
I sit quietly, lost in thoughts of phantom touches and promises that feel like prayers. Until Patricia notices. "Esther, darling, are you even paying attention? This is your wedding we're planning."
I don't respond. Can't bring myself to care about flowers and place cards when I'm being sold to a monster.
She exchanges a look with Rafael. "She's been like this for days. Distracted. Mooning about something."
The temperature in the room plummets. Rafael's eyes lock on me with predatory focus while standing, moving toward me with the controlled grace of a predator.
He looms over my chair, and I smell gunpowder and expensive cologne.
"Let me be very clear, Miss Castellano." His voice is soft, which makes it worse. "Whatever fantasy you're building in your head, whatever lingering attachment you have to your ex-fiancé or anyone else—kill it. Now."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "I don't—"
"My brother doesn't tolerate betrayal." Bile rises in my throat. "If Cassian even suspects you're thinking of another man, you won't survive your wedding night. Do you understand?"
I nod, unable to form words.
"Say it," he insisted.
"I understand."
"Good." He straightens, adjusting his cufflinks—black platinum, I notice with a jolt. "Because in nine days, you become a Greyhaven. And we protect what's ours with extreme prejudice."
I already tell myself to forget. To let go. To accept my fate with Cassian Greyhaven and survive however I can.
But my traitorous heart keeps reaching for a ghost. Praying he's alive somewhere, wishing impossibly that he could somehow save me from the monster waiting at the altar.
Nine days.
Nine days. Until I belong to Cassian Greyhaven. Until I discover what happens to women who disappear into his estate.
To forget a man who might never have existed at all.