ELLA

Beatrice Ford is on the floor of my room, again, drowning in silk and tulle. She’s like gum stuck in my sole.

The child won’t leave, and I have bigger problems than babysitting.

Her small fingers dig through the heap of clothes. “I can’t wait to grow up and wear all of these!” she squeals, clutching one of my designer gowns.

I have heard that a hundred times already. “You’ll make a scene wherever you go. I can already tell.”

She beams. “Like you?”

Well, ouch. “Exactly like me,” I mutter, though what I really mean is God, I hope not.

My phone screen glares back at me from the bed and it's a graveyard of unanswered messages.

Me (49 calls, 3 texts): Where are you? Please pick up, Dad.

Ivy’s message is the only thing that provides insight after I texted her to ask for him. ‘In China. Business trip.’ Her response came in eight hours ago.

Ridiculous. I marry for his sake and he takes a jolly honeymoon on my behalf.

My chest aches. The only person I want to talk to has his ring stuck on Ivy’s finger. I keep pretending it doesn’t sting, but my heart, apparently, hasn’t gotten the memo. God. I miss him.

I miss Harris so much that it’s killing me, and I just want to take it all back, apologize, and just be his friend again.

I want to tell him how insane Devlin is, and that Darren has a kid, that this mansion is an asylum, and we should run away like we planned to as kids.

But I ruined that, too. I take my hovering finger off his contact. I can’t call Harris.

Darren, on the other hand, is not home—something about a company scandal. So it’s just me, Beatrice, and god help me, Devlin Ford who has avoided me like a plague since yesterday.

“Miss Ella?” Agnes’s soft voice cuts through my spiral. I leave the door open because of Beatrice. She then steps in, carrying with her small parcel. “Gift from second Mr. Ford. He say for tonight.”

I sit up. “From Devlin?”

“Yes, miss Ella.”

I take it from her and tear it open. A gold dress spills out, gleaming and catching the light. I frown. That tasteless swine.

Of all the colors he could’ve picked. “Send it back.” I snap the box shut. “I don’t wear gold. Ever.”

Agnes flinches. “But, miss, he say-”

“I said return it, Agnes. I’d rather attend naked than wear something that color.”

Beatrice’s head pops up from the clothes. “Naked?!” she giggles.

Ugh. I groan. “Forget I said that. And don’t repeat it.”

She bounces up, tugging at my hand. “Can I help you get ready? Pleeease? I’ll be your make-up artist!”

I sigh, my walls cracking just a little. She’s been doing that for the past twenty-four hours— shaking me.

“Fine, little Miss Ford. You’re hired, but only if you promise not to paint my face like a clown.”

Her eyes light up, all giddy excitement and missing front teeth. “I promise!”

***

GALA.

The moment our feet touch the red carpet, the world transforms into a blinding storm of light, clicks, and nonsensical questions.

The only one left is to get asked how many times we fuck in a day.

Devlin’s hand slips into mine, coating me with the warmth I didn’t know I needed.

His grip is perfect for the pictures. Will probably headline tomorrow’s news, “Billionaire Devlin Ford holds wife like precious gemstone.”

But he’s unfazed, colder than the diamonds hanging from my ears. He’d barely glanced my way or said a word to me.

Makes it difficult to ask why his father almost killed him, and just how fucked up his family is. His impersonal touch still manages to get a lurch out of my heart.

The curve of his jaw, the angle of his smirk, the practiced tilt of his head, all of it screams devotion for the cameras.

He’s almost too perfect, in a tux that he fills up so perfectly with a tie that matches my red dress. Sometimes it’s hard to look away.

“Smile,” he murmurs under his breath. “Try not to look like you’re being held hostage.”

“I am,” I mutter through a frozen grin. “Not my fault I am not a certified liar like you are.”

The crowd devours the ‘golden couple’ charade, and I try to keep my head high until we enter the ballroom.

Inside, the ceiling is made of light and chandeliers that can buy a small nation. It’s dotted by some familiar faces, all of whom scream excess wealth and fit the vibe of the Ford dynasty so perfectly.

Marshall Ford stands at the center stage, His eyes, when they find me, narrow, and when they find Devlin, harden. A shiver skitters down my spine

Marshall Ford scares me.

He gives a subtle nod, then turns to the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight for the annual Ford Foundation Charity Gala…”

Applause swells, so does my scowl because I don’t see why.

Devlin’s hand is still in mine. When I try to pull away, he tightens his grip just slightly, and the cameras flash again.

My smile doesn’t falter, but my pulse does. Just not as much as when I spot Ivy and Harris a few steps ahead of us.

Instinctively, I jerk my hand from Devlin’s grip.

My stomach curls, my heart slowing a bit. Harris’ grin is almost too wide for his face, his hand resting at the small of Ivy’s back like she belongs there.

He’s glowing.

Ivy spots me before I can say a prayer against evil eyes. She looks like a walking candy wrapper in that gold dress. “Oh my god, Ella!” she gasps, dragging Harris with her. “You look stunning!”

“Representing Dad, are we?” I say sweetly, “How generous of you to play ambassador for the DiLaurentis empire.”

Ivy’s laugh comes out fake and airy. “Well, you know Daddy. He trusts me with everything.”

Of course, he does, more than his biological daughter. Her eyes slide to Devlin. “Mr Ford. It’s good to see you again.”

Devlin’s gaze doesn’t soften. He offers a single nod and a blank expression. Harris holds my gaze and my pulse stutters. I feel a hole carve into my stomach and I just want to throw my arms around him.

“I hope my sister hasn’t bored you with the difference between Prada and Louis Vuitton,” Ivy’s spiteful joke drops, her voice whiny.

“I could never be bored with her,” Devlin responds softly. “Besides her attention to detail is one of Ella’s amazing attributes. That’s how she knows gold is a lousy color for a gala.”

The way he says it makes the air crackle. Ivy’s lips tremble with an unstable smile. Harris clears his throat. I grip my champagne flute so tightly I might shatter it.

Harris finally speaks, keeping his eyes on me, “You look stunning, Isa.”

“Ella,” I correct again, ignoring the way my stomach flips. “It’s Ella.”

Devlin’s hand slides to my back, too intimate for comfort yet too performative for sincerity. He leans down just enough for the press to capture the perfect angle.

I want to slap that perfect smirk off his face. To stop feeling the heat of him behind me, and just crawl out of this miserable silence.

But Ivy isn’t done. “Oh, and—” her hand crawls to her belly delicately and she smiles up at Harris, “I meant to tell you this over dinner, but we’re expecting!”

“Expecting?” I echo. Like a DoorDash order?

“Our first baby,” she adds, her grin widening.

My heart hits a pause. Colors drain from my face and the world.

The lights blur, the sound dulls, and all I can see is Harris’s hand over hers, clutching it tightly. They both stare expectantly at me, waiting for a response.

I flash a recklessly brittle and hollow smile. “Congratulations. Really. That’s… great news.” My voice cracks on great.

I walk away before I crumble. Everything else Ivy says, I hear in a distant muffled.

The applause for Marshall’s speech masks my exit, and I don’t stop squeezing through the distracted crowds until I’m outside where silence swallows me whole in the parking garage.

Tears burn my eyes, but I’ll be damned if I let them fall. “Stupid,” I mumble, raking my fingers through my hair. “You’re so fucking stupid, Ella.”

“First smart thing you’ve said all night,” a voice drawls, slicing through the dark.

I already know who it is and I am more than tempted to throw a brick at him. Why’d he follow me?

Those dark, predatory eyes rake over me, peeling back every single layer I’m trying to hold together.

“Fuck off, Devlin,” I snap, my breath hitching as I try to claw back some control. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

He leans against a concrete pillar, all lazy arrogance and smugness like he’s got me pinned under a microscope. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m just here to make sure you don’t fling yourself off the nearest ledge.”

“I am not, so choke on your trust fund,” I spit, clenching my fists so hard my nails bite into my palms.

“And you?” He mocks. “On Prince Charming back there?”

“Do you ever get tired of being such an asshole?”

“Do you ever get tired of mooning over your sister’s fiancé? Crying while he’s playing house with your sister. You’re more pathetic than I thought.”

I draw in a shaky breath. “You don’t know shit about me, Devlin!” My quivering voice betrays me and I hate it.

I hate him.

“Oh, I know plenty.” He strolls closer, cocking his head. “Question is, does Ivy? Does she know you get wet for her fiancé?”

“Fuck you,” I choke out. I can’t keep my hands from shaking. “Fuck you, you asshole! I am leaving!”

I turn around but my stupid heel catches on a crack in the concrete, throwing my stamina into dust.

My arms flail and a yelp pushes out the depth of my throat, but I don’t hit the ground. Devlin's sturdy arms snake around my waist, grabbing and yanking me against him.

I slam into him helpless. Breathless. The world narrows to the press of his fingers through my dress and the thud of my heart against his chest. I burn under his touch.

My heart skips but I am sure it’s a condition. Not flattery. There’s nothing human about Devlin Ford.

“Careful, princess,” Devlin teases, “Wouldn’t want you falling for me.”

I shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall. “In your dreams. Get your hands off me, you prick.”

“Oh, I’m enjoying this way too much.” He doesn’t let go, his grip tightening around my waist and I just want to give in to it.

Instead, I jerk away, hiding the heat in my cheeks. “It’ll be too early to sue my own husband for assault.”

A click echoes in the dark immediately after and we both snap our heads toward the sound.

Devlin’s entire expression morphs into baffling worry. I stare, confused as he grabs my hand and shoves me behind him with untamed urgency, like it’s the end of the world.

“Stay behind me,” he orders through gritted teeth.

“What are you doing? It’s a garage, people come to—”

“Shut up, Ella,” he whispers in a hushed weary tone.

His hand slips into his jacket. When it comes out, it’s clutched around the black metal of something I don’t recognize at first, but the image gradually clears and it’s right there.

A GUN.