The wedding took place in a glass conservatory filled with white orchids.
Sloane stood at the back of the aisle, her arm linked through her father's. He'd been released from the rehab facility for the day, cleaned up, sober, wearing a suit that was slightly too big. His hand trembled against hers. She could feel his pulse racing.
"You don't have to do this," he whispered, his voice rough.
"Yes, I do."
"I'll find another way. I'll sell the house, I'll go to the police, I'll—"
"Dad." She squeezed his arm. "I made a choice. Let me make it."
He looked at her with eyes that held too much guilt, too many years of bad decisions. "This is my fault."
"We're past that." She looked down the aisle. "We're past blame. Today, we move forward."
Mateo stood at the altar, flanked by a priest and a man she didn't recognize—tall, dark‑haired, with the look of a soldier. He was dressed in black, his face unreadable. The morning light through the glass ceiling caught the angles of his face, making him look almost like a painting.
The string quartet began playing something soft, classical. Sloane started walking.
Every step felt like walking off a cliff.
The guests were few—maybe thirty people, all of them strangers. They watched her with eyes that assessed, measured, judged. Women in expensive dresses, men in tailored suits. A girl who looked to be in her early twenties sat in the front row, her arms crossed, her expression openly hostile. Mateo's sister, Sloane guessed. Isabella.
Mateo's eyes tracked her approach. When she reached him, he took her hand. His grip was warm, steady.
"You look terrified," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
"I'm assessing the exits."
His lips curved. It was the first real smile she'd seen from him—small, but genuine. "Good. Always know your exits."
The priest spoke words about love and commitment, about the sanctity of marriage. Sloane repeated them when prompted, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest. She wasn't in love. This wasn't sacred. It was a transaction wrapped in white silk.
Mateo slid a ring onto her finger—platinum, simple, heavy. It felt cold against her skin.
When he leaned in to kiss her, it was brief, formal. But his thumb traced a small circle on the back of her hand, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
Then it was over. They were walking back down the aisle together, and the hostile woman—Isabella—was clapping slowly, deliberately, her eyes fixed on Sloane with something that looked like pity.
"Who's that?" Sloane whispered.
"Isabella. My sister." Mateo's jaw tightened. "She didn't approve of the marriage."
"She's not alone."
He didn't respond.
The reception was held in the main house—a sprawling estate that had been in the Rivas family for generations. Old money, old secrets. Waiters circled with champagne, and the string quartet had been replaced by a jazz band. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, a staircase that looked like something from a movie.
Sloane stayed close to Mateo, shaking hands, smiling, repeating the same pleasantries. She drank only water, because she needed her wits about her.
At one point, a man with silver hair approached them. He kissed her hand with old‑world courtesy, but his eyes never left Mateo. Cold, calculating eyes.
"My congratulations," the man said. "She's lovely. A pity you didn't consider my daughter. Family ties are important, Mateo. Blood remembers."
Mateo's arm tightened around Sloane's waist. "I'm sure your daughter will find a suitable match, Antonio. Perhaps someone who shares her… traditional values."
Antonio Rossi smiled, and it was the smile of a shark. "We'll see. Marriage can be such a fragile thing. So many things can go wrong."
He walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
"Who was that?" Sloane asked, though she already suspected.
"Antonio Rossi. The head of the Rossi family." Mateo's voice was calm, but his jaw was tight. "He wanted to merge our families through marriage. I refused. He didn't take it well."
"He threatened you."
"He threatened you." Mateo looked down at her, and for a moment, she saw something unguarded in his expression. Fear, maybe. Or protectiveness. "That's why you need to be careful. The contract keeps you safe from me. But there are other dangers, Sloane. Dangers I can't always control."
She should have been afraid. Any sane person would have been. Instead, she felt a cold clarity settle over her. She had spent her whole life running from things—her father's debts, her own stalled dreams, the fear that she'd never be more than what she'd been born into.
But here, in this glittering room full of wolves, she realized something.
If I'm going to be in danger anyway, I might as well be dangerous too.
"Then teach me," she said. "How to survive in your world."
He studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"All right. First lesson: never let them see you sweat." He tilted his head toward the dance floor, where couples were beginning to sway. "Dance with me."
She let him lead her onto the floor. His hand settled on her waist, warm and sure. They moved through the steps with surprising ease—she'd taken ballroom dancing in college, a foolish elective she'd never thought she'd use.
"You're a natural," Mateo said.
"I'm adaptable."
"That's why I chose you."
The words hung in the air. Sloane looked up at him, searching for the lie, but his face was unreadable again.
"You didn't choose me," she said. "I was the only one desperate enough to sign."
His hand tightened on her waist. "You underestimate yourself."
Before she could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew everyone's attention. A woman with red hair had walked in, dressed in blood‑red silk, her eyes fixed on Sloane.
Mateo stopped dancing. "Diana."
The woman smiled. "Mateo. I came to offer my congratulations to the bride." She looked at Sloane. "We have so much to talk about."
Diana pressed something into Sloane's palm—a folded photograph. "Your mother says hello," she whispered. Then she was gone, and Sloane was left holding a picture of her mother, standing beside Diana, both of them smiling. On the back, in h
er mother's handwriting: "I'm sorry. I'll explain everything. Meet me." An address was scribbled below.