Tatiana’s POV

The second Andrew’s footsteps disappeared down that marble hallway, I finally let my lungs unclench. The air came out rough, like it had claws, scraping my throat raw. Relief? Dread? Hell if I knew. Probably both tangled up, choking me.

My palms were still damp, my heart doing that stupid flutter, too fast, too uneven, like it couldn’t pick a side. Panic or blackout. And still, I stood there in front of the Hartwells, pretending I wasn’t two seconds away from falling apart.

“I’m going home,” I rasped. The words were scraped out and broken, but I forced them.

Mrs. Hartwell didn’t blink. She just smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her blouse and nodded, like she’d been waiting for me to say it. “Yes, of course you can go now. The driver will take you home and bring you here tomorrow. He knows to be here early.”

My stomach lurched. “Tomorrow?”

Her lips sharpened into this smile, polished and cruel. “Before the press arrives, dear. We wouldn’t want delays.”

I turned to Mr. Hartwell. He was calm as stone, sipping something golden and expensive, like I wasn’t even worth the effort of a glance. “You really expect me to just walk in here tomorrow and marry that man?”

“You’ve already played the part,” he said, swirling his glass like it was all numbers on a page. “It’s too late to back out now.”

I stared at the both of them; their calm was worse than yelling. Worse than threats. They were comfortable, so damn comfortable, while my life was being carved into pieces.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to spit right on their perfect floor. I wanted to drag Lena back by her hair and shove this wig and dress at her and tell her to fix her own mess.

But I couldn’t.

“You have me by the throat,” I said, the bitterness dripping from every syllable. “So don’t worry. I’ll be here.”

**********

I don’t remember the ride home, just headlights streaking by and the buzz in my skull, heavy, like I was stuck underwater with no way up.

The door to the apartment creaked like always. My world was still small and still mine for now.

Dad was hunched over the table, a sandwich in one hand, a pencil tucked behind his ear, sketching on the back of a bill. His shoulders sagged, his shirt was wrinkled, and his face was tired. But when he looked up, he smiled.

“Hey, baby girl. You’re late.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, dumping my purse by the shoe rack. “An art buyer wasted our time. Walked around like he owned the place, bought one piece, then strutted out like he’d done us a favor.”

Dad grunted, shaking his head. “Rich folks. They have no respect for other people's time. Or effort. They think breathing in your space is a gift.”

I let out a weak laugh. “You pretty much nailed it, Dad.”

He pushed a plate across the table. Half a sandwich, stale chips. “Want some?”

I sat and took it. “Sure. Why not clog my arteries while my life burns down?”

He raised a brow at me. “You good?”

I bit into a chip, crunching loud in the quiet, but it tasted like cardboard. “I am just tired.”

He sipped his tea, eyes narrowing in that dad way, seeing too much but not pushing. “How’s Lena? Is she coping okay with this whole wedding thing?”

My hand tightened on the table edge.

“She’s… managing,” I lied; my throat hurt.

He smiled, proud. He thought Lena was strong. I couldn’t look at him; if I did, I might just say the truth.

********

Sleep was useless. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw white dresses, doors locking behind me, and Andrew’s eyes staring through a veil.

By morning I was already back at the Hartwells’, the sky barely lit.

Georgia opened the door, with a smile on her face, like she’d been programmed. “Everything’s laid out for you, miss.”

Miss? Not Lena or Tatiana. Just miss. Like, even she couldn’t tell the lie without choking.

Lena’s room smelled of lavender and expensive perfume fading in the air. The dress hung like a ghost, lace and silk, obscene in how much it probably cost.

It wasn’t mine, but I put it on, and it fit like it had been waiting for me all along.

The wig came next. Pinned, brushed, and curls set until it looked like it grew from my scalp. Then the gray contacts, and the reflection in the mirror wasn’t me anymore.

She was colder and richer. Someone who belonged beside Andrew Steele.

The door clicked open. Mrs. Hartwell. Eyes sharp, scanning me like I was merchandise.

“Pull the veil forward when you walk,” she said. “Keep your chin down. It sells the look.”

I turned, desperate. “Any word on Lena? Anything?”

Her face didn’t move. “No. We’re still searching.”

Her voice told me otherwise. She’d stopped looking. Or maybe she was hoping Lena stayed gone, at least until after the wedding.

I shut my mouth. There's no point asking again.

She led me outside, and my breath caught.

The chapel was a dream someone else paid for. Stained glass windows throwing colored light. Candles everywhere. Whispers buzzing under the music like bees in my skull.

Charles Hartwell’s hand locked on mine as he walked me down the aisle. It felt like I was walking into someone else’s story. Probably the villain’s.

But I walked anyway.

And there he was.

Andrew Steele, geared up in a black suit. His tie was as sharp as his jaw. His eyes, God, those eyes locked on me, like a spotlight I couldn’t escape.

He didn’t smile nor frown. Just… watched.

And I swear he saw me. Not Lena, but the real me.

My knees wanted to give out, but I kept going. My hand shook when I gave it to him. His grip tightened, steady, knowing.

The officiant spoke, words blurred together: vows, forever, honor. I repeated them because I had to, because my mouth worked even if my brain didn’t.

Then the kiss.

He leaned in slowly, fingers brushing the back of my neck softly.

Then his mouth pressed harder. Not cruel, nor sweet. It was as if he was searching my mouth for clues.

I kissed back, because the cameras were flashing, and everyone was watching.

But when he deepened it, something inside me cracked.

He pulled back, lips close to my ear, voice low enough only I could hear.

“You taste nothing like the Lena I know.”

The floor tilted. My blood roared in my ears. My legs trembled inside the silk.

Fuck. He knows.