THE KASTELLAN HEIR.

THE NIGHT BEFORE.

Friday night, the eve of the wedding, settled over Halloway City like a held breath.

In the vault beneath the Kastellan tower, box 4471-K sat unopened on a steel table. Sienna's team had found the strongbox intact but had discovered a fresh scratch across the lock. Someone had tried to tamper with it. The vault's lawyers wanted forty-eight hours to verify Ronan's blood signature. Ronan had told them he'd be back on Sunday.

"Sunday," Sienna had grumbled. "After the wedding. Ronan, you have a hundred million reasons to open it today."

"And a bad feeling about doing it while Aldric's watching. Let him wonder."

She had stopped arguing, though she hadn't stopped frowning.

At the Brentford estate, the mood was electric and frayed.

Margaux swept through the house in a silk robe, barking orders at florists, wedding planners, and a hair stylist who kept dropping combs. Coleman lounged on the sofa in the living room, one leg over the armrest, scrolling through his phone with the sullen air of a man who'd been told to wear a bow tie.

Upstairs, Vivienne sat on the edge of her bed, alone.

The dress hung on the closet door. It was breathtaking, ivory lace and silk, hand-stitched in a boutique that charged a small fortune for a fitting. She'd never asked how the bill had been settled. Preston had said only, "A client's gift," with his charming smile, and she'd let it lie.

She was not thinking about the dress.

She was thinking about Ronan.

The memory came unbidden: him standing on the porch in that sleek suit, calm, controlled, unbothered by the insults. You'll be sorry, his posture had said. She'd told herself she had imagined it. But she had known that man for four years. He never stood that way. He shrank. He apologized. He said please.

That man was gone. And in his place stood a stranger she couldn't read.

"Silly," she muttered, wiping her eyes. "You're getting married tomorrow."

A knock. Margaux stuck her head in the door, her face bright with feverish energy. "Darling, the makeup artist is here. And I need you to sign the caterer's authorization. It's a formality."

"Mom, Preston said the firm was having some trouble. Is the money..."

"The money is fine." Margaux's smile tightened. "Everything's fine. Stop worrying. Tomorrow you'll be Mrs. Halvane, and your worries will be over."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

Vivienne studied her mother. Margaux was in her fifties, still striking, still armored in lipstick and pearls. But tonight there were shadows under her eyes, and her hands, when she thought nobody was looking, twisted together as though wringing out a wet cloth.

"Mom," Vivienne said slowly. "Are we in debt?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You've been getting calls. Late at night. From men who don't leave names."

Margaux's smile flickered and went out. "Vivienne. Listen to me." She crossed the room and took her daughter's chin, holding it firmly. "You are marrying a man with a company, a house, and a future. He will take care of us. That's all you need to know."

"I asked you a question."

"And I gave you an answer." Margaux's grip softened. She kissed Vivienne's forehead, which felt more like a warning than affection. "Smile tomorrow. Everything after that is my job."

She left. The door closed. Vivienne stared at it.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Coleman was on the phone. He kept his voice low, one hand cupped around the mouthpiece.

"No, I haven't told her," he muttered. "Look, I said I'd handle it. Yes, I have the file... Ronan's old paperwork. His adoption stuff, his medical. Everything from the marriage license." He listened. His eyes narrowed with greed. "The price we discussed. Cash, Mr. Neville. Right after the wedding."

He hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket, grinning.

---

In Green Hills Manor, a wing of the mansion had been closed to the public for the evening. Ronan sat alone in the empty ballroom with the lights dimmed, looking up at a chandelier the size of a small car.

Everything in this room was his now. The white chairs, lined in tidy rows. The carved arch at the altar, wrapped in ivory roses. The band's stage, the champagne tower, the dove cages hidden behind a velvet curtain. Warrick's team had signed the papers on Wednesday. The manager, a nervous, balding man named Pruitt, had nearly fainted when Ronan introduced himself.

"Mr. Kastellan," Pruitt had stammered. "I had no idea. I... your staff will do anything, sir. Anything at all."

"I'd like everything to go ahead exactly as planned," Ronan had said. "Full service. The bride and groom shouldn't notice any difference. Until I say."

"And when you say?"

"You'll know."

Now the ballroom lay quiet, every empty chair a small ghost. He walked slowly down the aisle. He tried to picture Vivienne walking this same carpet toward a man who'd fired him, her lace train dragging behind her.

He'd expected to feel triumphant. Instead, the feeling in his chest was more complicated, and much heavier.

He thought of the courthouse. The cheap fluorescent lights. The judge who had looked at his watch. Harold Brentford in his wheelchair, wheezing, his fingers clamped around Ronan's wrist as though afraid he might disappear. Vivienne standing on the other side of the room in a plain gray dress, staring at the floor. He had said I do in a voice that shook, and she had said it in a voice that didn't.

He had never told anyone that when the judge said you may kiss the bride, she had turned her cheek, and he'd kissed the air beside her ear.

He had smiled anyway. He always smiled.

"You're brooding again."

Sienna stood in the doorway in a charcoal dress, one arm cradling a bottle of water. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of a chair, kicking off her heels.

"I'm thinking," he said.

"Loudly." She handed him the water. "You don't have to do this, you know. You could stay home tomorrow. Tell Warrick to turn everything off. Walk away clean."

"I could."

"But you won't."

He considered. "For four years I was told I was nothing. Tomorrow, in front of two hundred people who watched me be laughed at, I want to give them the truth."

"That's not revenge," Sienna said gently. "That's closure. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Revenge feeds on the other person. Closure is about you." She met his eyes. "I just want you to know which one you're choosing."

He didn't answer. His phone buzzed on the arm of the chair.

He glanced at it, expecting Warrick. The message came from an unknown number, sent seconds ago, just four lines.

Do not go to the wedding. There is a man in the guest list who was there the night your parents died. You are walking into his house. Someone who loved your mother.

The chandelier above them tinkled faintly, stirred by some draft, and every hair on Ronan's arms stood on end.

"Sienna," he said, very quietly. "Who could possibly know that?"

She read the screen, and all the color left her face.

"No one," she whispered. "No one was supposed to know that."