Days passed like hours.
Selene was trapped. Locked in her room in the grand Beaumont estate, she only stepped out two or three times—and only under the hawk-like gaze of Isabelle. Those short visits were to her father, whose condition was deteriorating every day. The last time she saw him, weak and pale in his bed, he had reached out and whispered her name. Selene had smiled for his sake, swallowed the fury, and nodded along. If agreeing to this farce of a wedding meant her father could live peacefully, she'd play along.
But the morning of the wedding arrived like an omen. The sun spilled golden light across the marble floors. White roses were strung over archways like a celebration of defeat. Violins played soft melodies that echoed through the grand halls, their notes sweet and hollow. The entire estate buzzed with motion, staff rushing to complete final touches, guests arriving in black cars, unaware of the poison in the air.
Somewhere behind that music, Evan was coming.
"We can't just walk in," Lena whispered as they sat parked outside the back entrance in a rented white van. She wore large sunglasses, a scarf around her head.
"You see the security? They look like they eat adrenaline for breakfast."
"I can kill them all," Evan said with perfect seriousness, adjusting the cuff of his shirt.
Lena glanced at him, deadpan. "Yeah right, John Wick."
"Please, I'm more charming than him."
"You mean more chaotic."
Evan smirked. "Exactly."
She rolled her eyes. "Let's go."
Lena adjusted her sunglasses again and climbed out of the van with the poise of someone about to con royalty. Evan followed, camera strapped across his chest, dark button-down rolled at the sleeves, a fedora tipped just enough to hide his face from any distant security cameras.
"From now on, I'm Isabelle Moreau," Lena said under her breath as they approached the side gate. "Bridal makeup artist to the rich and royally twisted."
"And I'm Gabriel," Evan replied. "Elite event photographer and silent assassin of fake fiancés."
Lena let out a loud snort. "Okay, Gabriel. Let's do this."
The side gate guard barely looked at their forged badges. He had a clipboard, a terrible hangover, and zero patience.
"Vendors?" he muttered.
"Yup," Lena chirped, handing over the pass with a sweet smile and a confident nod.
Evan just pointed at his camera, said nothing, and nodded.
"Third door to the left," the guard said, waving them through.
They walked briskly through the estate.
"I can't believe that worked," Lena muttered through clenched teeth.
"You should believe it. Confidence is 70% of crime."
"And the other 30%?"
"Fedoras."
Inside, the halls gleamed. Chandeliers swung gently above their heads, and the smell of expensive perfume and fresh florals filled the air. Staff rushed around, carrying cake layers, bouquets, and champagne. Evan's heart was pounding. Somewhere in this golden prison, Selene was waiting. Maybe not even expecting rescue anymore.
"You go to the bridal suite," Evan whispered, veering toward the ballroom. "See if she's there. I'll scope out the main hall."
Lena nodded.
Evan couldn't help but smile. "Don't die."
"You too, Gabriel."
They split.
And the wedding crashers were in.
Backstage – Makeup Room
The bridal suite was soaked in filtered sunlight, diffused through lacy curtains that softened the grandeur of the space into something deceptively delicate. Gilded mirrors, antique furniture, and soft classical music playing in the background made it feel more like a dollhouse than a prison.
Selene sat in front of a grand vanity, white gown draped perfectly over her body like it belonged to someone else. Her shoulders were still, her hands folded neatly in her lap. But her eyes… her eyes looked miles away, hollowed out from days of silence, coercion, and grief. It was as if her soul had shrunk and settled deep inside her ribcage, hiding.
Two women—probably stylists from Isabelle's trusted team—fussed around her like decorators polishing a museum statue. One was pinning her veil, the other dabbing more powder across her cheekbones. Neither of them noticed the fire building behind Selene's stillness.
Then the door swung open.
Lena strutted in, her fake ID badge swinging from her neck, a massive makeup kit in hand. She dropped it to the floor with a dramatic clunk.
"Oops," she said, flashing a disarming smile and a theatrical wink.
The two stylists froze.
"Who are you?" one of them asked, clearly offended.
"I was called in by Madame Isabelle," Lena said coolly, already walking toward Selene like she owned the room. "She told me you two were absolutely butchering the bride's face. Not enough warmth in the undertone. Tsk."
Selene barely reacted, but her gaze flicked to Lena's reflection in the mirror.
Lena crouched slightly, pretending to examine Selene's cheekbones. She reached into her kit and held up a compact mirror, shielding her mouth with it as she leaned in close. Her voice was a whisper only Selene could hear.
"Evan's here. Hold on."
Selene blinked.
Once.
Then again.
Her fingers, lifeless in her lap, curled slightly. Her throat worked, swallowing hard.
"Really?" she whispered, her voice broken glass.
Then—"Tell him to leave… it's no use. They'll kill my dad."
Lena leaned back slowly, her smile fixed but her eyes filled with fire. She gave Selene's shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Before she could say more, the door opened and the planner stepped in, clipboard in hand. "It's time," she said crisply.
Selene rose to her feet, her movements practiced. Robotic. The veil now framed her face like a curtain masking a haunted stage. She followed the planner silently, her train gliding behind her like a shroud.
As soon as they disappeared down the hallway, Lena grabbed her kit and sprinted out in the opposite direction, nearly knocking over a waiter with a tray of champagne.
Meanwhile: Grand Ballroom
Evan strolled through the main event hall, pretending to photograph the flower arrangements, but keeping his eyes open for Liam. And he saw him—standing at the altar, smirking in a champagne-colored tuxedo, laughing with Isabelle.
Outside in the corridor, she pulled out her phone and hit Evan's number. He picked up immediately.
"Creep looks like a villain straight out of a bad soap opera," Evan muttered into his phone, secretly calling Lena on his earpiece.
"You're not wrong," Lena whispered back. "We need a plan."
"I have one," Evan replied. "You know those dramatic moments in movies when the groom gets punched in the face?"
"You're not seriously thinking—"
"Oh, I'm absolutely thinking it."
"She said to tell you to leave. She thinks they'll kill her dad if she tries to run."
Evan's voice was low but urgent. "Where is she now?"
"She's being led down to the ceremony. You have minutes, maybe less."
"Keep your phone on. I'm coming in."