Chapter 7 · The Photo at the Altar

The wedding planner keeps trying to put me in white.

I'm sitting in a hotel suite that costs more per night than my dad's last hospital bill, and this woman—her name tag says Amanda—keeps holding up dresses like I'm supposed to care which shade of ivory makes me look more virginal.

"This one has French lace," she says. "Very elegant. Very bride."

I want to tell her I'm not trying to look like a bride. I'm trying to look like someone who isn't about to marry her parents' killer while half the city watches.

But Claire's the only person who knows that, and she's not here.

She texted an hour ago: *Delayed. Stall if you can.*

I can't stall. The ceremony starts in forty minutes, and Archer's people have been outside my door since six AM. I haven't seen him since last night—since he took my phone and asked who I work for.

I told him nobody. He didn't believe me, but he let me walk out of that office anyway.

That's the part that scares me most. He knows I'm lying, and he's still letting this wedding happen.

"Miss Su?" Amanda's holding up another dress. "What do you think?"