"Of course," my mother says, her eyes wet with happiness.

  My father nods his agreement, his lips smiling in a thin line. "We're all excited about the wedding. I can't wait to see how beautiful my daughter looks in her dress."

  I'm ready to vomit.

  The image of puke getting all of Alexander's too-expensive clothes, and the look of shock and disgust that would mark his face, nearly makes me smile.

  Nearly.

  I don't think I'll be smiling for a while.

  "You are excited, aren't you, Madison?" Alexander says, tightening his grip on me.

  "Very," I whisper, unexcited.

  "I'm glad you agree, my love," Alexander says. It's shocking to hear that word—love—sound so cold, so anti-love. He smiles. "Tomorrow, my family will hold a celebration dinner in honor of our two families joining. Then, the following day, Madison and I shall join our lives until death do us part."

  Everyone smiles, nods, and Ashley even hugs me. "I can’t wait for you to get married, Maddy."

  I again suppress my urge to spew terrified vomit all over my husband-to-be.

  “Good!” Alexander says, smiling again in his sick and wrong way. “It’s settled. Now, I have to go—I have people to see, arrangements to make for the wedding.” He turns to Ashley. “Ashley, would you make sure that Madison has everything necessary for tomorrow and for our special night together? It should be just as we discussed earlier.”

  Ashley nods quickly, her smile growing even more wide and sickeningly sweet.

  “Yes,” she says, reaching out to take my hand. "I'll take good care of her."

  I wince at her touch, feel dirty and violated, and pull my hand away.

  Ashley’s smile wavers slightly, then she laughs.

  “Maddy, relax,” she says, her eyes taunting me. “It will be for the best. I know you have nerves about your wedding. It's understandable to have cold feet—I know I sure as fuck would if I had to settle down with someone, even someone as great as Alexander—but you have to get yourself under control. You don't want to hurt anyone, do you? Especially not the man you love?”

  It’s such a pointed question; I know she's not talking about Alexander.

  Icy cold runs through my veins. They must have Jackson. That means I am truly alone; his life, as well as my future, all depends on me.

  "I wouldn't dream of it."

  "The real dream comes in two days, my darling, when you finally become my wife." Alexander's grip tightens around my hand like a noose as he brings it to his lips. His words ring in my ears like an ominous death toll, crushing my spirit and extinguishing the last spark of hope in my heart for a brighter future. “Then our new lives begin together.”

  No. No life begins for me—my life ends in two days.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Madison

  The next day comes too quickly, with too much of my time spent under Ashley’s watchful eye. Now, as demanded, I find myself at the Covington Residence, standing in the dining hall, wishing I were anywhere else on earth. The opulent dining hall is a vast space with dark wood tables and chairs. Elaborate chandeliers cast a warm light over the room and cast shadows in the many nooks and crannies. Paintings of yachts sailing valiantly through calm waters, of foxhunts set against rich scenery from times gone by, of European villas adorn the walls and, sitting central to everything, are a pair of Renoir paintings. The soft sound of conversation fills the air, punctuated by the faint tinkling of delicate porcelain cups.

  This is the putrid, pulsing heart of the Covington Residence, a home so fabulous that many in the neighborhood—and those who operate in certain lofty circles of Costa Oscura society—simply call it 'The Residence'.

  Dominating the center of the room is a long table set for the grand celebration, adorned with fine china and shimmering silverware, surrounded in some parts by chairs occupied by the most connected of Costa Oscura’s wealthy and powerful, while other chairs sit empty as their intended occupants circle around the room socializing.

  My heart sinks as I enter, my eyes scan the room, and I take in the presence of my parents, the Covington family, and Ashley, my former friend, now an enemy.

  Why did she do it?

  My feet feel like lead as I stand in the doorway.

  The room is alive with bright laughter and cheerful chatter that bounces off of the walls, yet to me, it sounds like a funeral dirge. This is my last night before I’m wed to a monster of a man, and I have to spend it surrounded by enemies and former friends, by their grovelers and hangers-on. Heavy sadness wells up inside me—regret, remorse, a wish that Jackson were here, a hope that Jackson is, at least, still alive—and I allow myself a moment to feel it, to remind myself that I am alone, I am the only person I can depend on, and that no one in this room is a friend. Then I force those feelings deep down inside me and put on the polite facade I know I must wear; I have to keep control of myself; I have to be calm, cool, calculating, because that is the only way I will survive this nightmare.

  Yet controlling that boiling cauldron of emotion is so daunting; I want to run the second I take another step into the room, even though I know that running would be pointless. So I grab a glass of wine from a passing servant. Sip it. Empty it. Grab another. The numbness the wine brings seems like a haven, but I know it's just a temporary refuge.

  I circulate.

  The room is a blur of faces and conversations, the wine in my hand like an anchor to keep me grounded. I make polite, trite conversation with all the guests, some of whom I recognize and some whom I do not, none of whom I actually care for.

  I eventually come to Mr. Jonathan Covington—tall, silver-haired, and imposing—the dominating patriarch of the Covington family. He greets me warmly, but his piercing gaze belies his true intentions: to size me up and break me down.

  “Madison Sinclair, I trust you are enjoying the party?”

  My voice is stilted, awkward in my throat, like it’s not me speaking, but some stranger inside me instead. Yet even that stranger knows how dangerous Jonathan Covington truly is. “Of course. How could I not enjoy such lovely company?”

  “It is important that you do. I want my guests to see what an attentive, loving fiance my son has.”

  “They will.”

  He lowers his voice, ever aware of even the potential that a passing server or, even worse, a guest, might overhear him. “Do I need to explain to you the consequences? I know you are a bright person, however I understand you may be unfamiliar with this way of doing business. Know this: it is vital that you grasp your role, as well as its importance to both you and the lives of your friends and family. If you prove yourself an asset to the Covington family business, the people you care about will reap the rewards. If you prove yourself otherwise, well, reaping of a different type will be necessary. Do you understand me, Madison Sinclair?”

  What frightens me most about Jonathan Covington—among the many things that frighten me about him, such as his iceberg-cold eyes, his height, his physical presence—is how he speaks so calmly about what will happen to me if I don’t fall in line. It isn’t a threat to him. There’s no anger in his voice; he is completely calm. He talks as if it is the most natural conclusion in the world that anyone who gets in his way will have everything they love ruthlessly ground to dust.

  I swallow wine and terror in a big gulp. “I understand my situation.”

  Though I will never accept it. Never stop searching for some way to fight it, to make it untenable, to free myself.

  He smiles at me in a tight-lipped way, as if he knows every thought going through my mind. “Go. Enjoy your party.”

  My stomach clenches in relief as I leave Mr. Covington and circle through the room, doing everything I can to avoid eye contact with Ashley, who stands across from me, talking animatedly with her parents and sister.

  Victoria Covington draws my attention next—Alexander's striking mother, whose impeccable clothing cloaks a heartless interior. I’ve heard the rumors about her, and like so many guests at this party, I keep my interaction with her to a hug, a kiss on her cheek, and a few whispered pleasantries before I invent an excuse to get away. No one except the most desperate wants to linger too long in her presence for fear of getting caught up in her malicious and conniving aura.

  Alexander's brother and sister—Nathaniel and Isabella—I ignore. They're the younger children and, even to their family, are less important, less worth the investment of time. My status as their older brother's wife means I can look down on them, if I so choose.

  My parents, I hardly acknowledge. The pain I feel because of them is too raw to say anything more than a simple, "I love you."

  Thankfully, as I circle, my husband-to-be is ignoring me, which is what I think we both prefer; he focuses on his networking, and I focus on my drinking. We both know this marriage is nothing more than a business arrangement.

  Then, as I take my fourth glass of wine from the tray of a passing server, a strong hand grabs me by the shoulder and whirls me around.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Ashley says, her voice betraying concern and anger. "Why the hell are you moping around like such a bitch?"

  I bristle at her words, and my hand tightens around my wine glass. "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me," Ashley says, her eyes flashing. "You're acting like a spoiled little brat. Do you know how lucky you are to be marrying into the Covington family? Do you know how much your parents have sacrificed to make that happen?"

  I feel a surge of viciousness inside me. "Sacrificed?" I say, my voice rising. "They sold me off like a piece of property to further their own ambitions. And you, Ashley, you went along with it. You betrayed me, you bitch."

  Ashley's face darkens, and for a moment I think she's going to hit me. "I did what I had to do. You think you're the only one with dreams and ambitions? This was my chance to make something of myself, and I took it."

  I stare at her, my heart pounding in my chest. I want to scream, to lash out at her, but I know it won't do any good. She's made her choice, and I've made mine. Besides, in a physical fight—even if I were sober—I know she would kick my ass; she’s one of the top players on the Costa Oscura Women’s Rugby team for a reason.

  "Fine. Do what you have to do. But don't expect me to forgive you for this."

  Ashley's lips curl in a sneer. "I don't need your forgiveness. I've got everything I need right here. Or over there, rather." Her eyes flash to my fiance for a split second, and the heat in her glance is unmistakable.

  Waves of betrayal crash against my soul, my breath catching in my throat as the weight of the revelation settles upon me. She is having an affair with Alexander. Not only has she hitched her ambitions to his coattails, she’s fucking him.

  "You fucking whore. I can’t believe I once thought you were my friend, when really, all you are is a gold-digging slut."

  "You're a piece of gutter trash. You don't deserve to be here. You don't deserve the Covington name. You don't deserve Alexander."

  The words cut me like a knife, and I feel a sob rising in my throat. I fight it down, swallowing it and forcing my emotions back into the hidden depths of my soul.

  "Fuck you," I say, feeling tears welling in my eyes. I turn away from her, only to find myself face to face with Alexander.

  "Madison," he says, his voice low and husky. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," I say, swallowing my emotions. "I was just telling Ashley how excited I am about the wedding."

  "Is that so?" he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  "Yes. I can't wait."

  Alexander's eyes darken for a moment before he leans down and gives me a kiss that turns my stomach. When he pulls away, I can feel Ashley's gaze burning a jealous hole in my back.

  "I'm glad you're excited," Alexander says. "But perhaps it's time for you to retire for the night. You're making a scene and I won't have that in front of our guests." He then places his hand on my wrist. A warning. “There’d be dire consequences, my love.”

  "Oh, I wouldn't want to make a scene. Wouldn't want to embarrass you," I hiss so low that he has to lean in to hear. "Though how you can feel embarrassment when you've shamelessly been fucking one of my friends is beyond me."

  Alexander laughs for appearances, so that anyone observing would think I had simply told him a hilarious joke. But the way he tightens his grip on my wrist is anything but funny.

  "Watch yourself. I'll fuck who I want, you bitch. The terms of our deal are that you be a good, submissive little wife and stay the fuck out of my business, and maybe, when I'm done with you, you'll make it out of this marriage alive."

  "Is that so? You think you're the only one who can make things a nightmare for the other?" My mind runs a dangerous calculus: just how far I can push Alexander, how far things can go before one of us breaks. Luckily for me, I don't value my own life that much right now. That gives me an edge. Because sure as all fuck Alexander thinks the world of himself.

  "Oh, I do. Because I wouldn't just be making things a nightmare for you, Madison. I'll make you watch as I grind your family to dust, and then, when I'm done with your weeping mother and your feckless father, I'll go for your heart. Because I have it, Madison. I have it. Or should I say him."

  A choked gasp escapes my throat. "You have Jackson?"

  A chill sweeps over me, as if I was already six feet beneath the ground.

  "Yes. Jackson." His voice is a low, venomous growl. "I have him. I have his friend, too. If you even think about pushing me, if you dare threaten me, if your very gaze betrays anything less than admiration for your beloved husband... my men will tear him to shreds. They will bleed him dry, and just before his final breath, the last thing he’ll see is me, covered in his blood, ending your life."

  Chapter Thirty

  Jackson

  Some time passes.

  One day, maybe two, I'm not sure; it's hard to tell time between bouts of being beaten senseless. I'm only able to figure out for sure a couple of things in my intervals of consciousness. First, Marcus is definitely here, because there comes a point where I can hear him screaming for mercy in one of the adjoining rooms. It's gut-wrenching to hear someone who, out of their love for you as a friend, chose to put their life on the line and now actually has to face the dark consequences of their decision. It was never supposed to be like this, and each time my friend screams is like a knife in my already wounded heart. There are moments where I come as close as the razor’s edge to attempting to provoke Victor into killing me, and it’s only the faint hope that I can escape to save Madison is what keeps me hanging on.

  The second thing I learn is that we are in an abandoned mechanic's shop; it smells like one; feels like one, too. And it makes sense. Alexander is the type to love the symbolism of a poor son of a mechanic meeting his bloody end in the same type of building where his father slaved over the cars of people richer than him. But being in a garage gives me a strange sort of comfort, because there's always been a piece of me that thought I might die in a garage. Every time I crawled under a car on jacks, there was a part of me that had a momentary flash wondering if the jacks were truly secure, or if this would be the time they'd fail and I'd be crushed under a beige Toyota Sienna.

  The last thing I learn is that Victor Stone really loves his job. The man just does not get tired when he beats me. Every time I pass out, he's there to bring me back to life just so he can resume beating me; if he weren't killing me or the people I care about, I'd almost be happy for him—it's rare for people to find a job that they really, really enjoy, but he's done it. The dick.

  The talented, happy-in-his-job dick.

  After some time, Victor drags me and the chair I'm cuffed to into the main bay of the mechanic shop. Sure enough, there's a wreck of a car hoisted on an old lift in the center bay. Not a Toyota Sienna, though. Instead, it's an orange Kia Rio.

  "Hey Jackson," Marcus says to me through his busted mouth when another one of Alexander's thugs drags him into the room beside me.

  "Hey Marcus. How are you doing today? Been a while since I've seen you," I answer.

  "Oh, can't complain," he says.

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, I tried that earlier. Even asked the guy if I could talk to his manager. Motherfucker punched me. Can you believe it?"

  "Fuck, bro, the service around here sucks. I've never felt so unwelcome."

  "Shut the fuck up, both of you, or I'll cut your tongues out," Victor snaps.

  "See what I mean?" Marcus says. "These guys suck ass."

  "Definitely not five star service. I think I'll get on Yelp after this just to warn everyone not to book their torture session here," I add.

  “Fuck, I wouldn’t even come here on a Groupon,” Marcus says. “Or a gift card. Like, if my Aunt Sally gave me a certificate to this place, I’d disown her and spit in her face, and I love my Aunt Sally. She’s a total sweetheart.”

  "Shut the fuck up, both of you, or I swear to fucking god, I will beat you both to within a fucking inch of your lives," Victor snarls.

  "What the fuck have you been doing to us already? Giving us your version of a massage?" I say. “If so, I sure as fuck ain’t leaving a tip.”

  Victor draws a gun, fires two rounds at the ground inches from Marcus' feet. He does the same to me.

  "Shutting up now," Marcus says.

  We both shut our mouths.

  But we trade plenty of information with our eyes. That's the advantage of knowing someone as long as I've known Marcus—we can talk without talking.

  And Victor, well, he doesn't know exactly what we're saying, but he sure as fuck doesn't like it.

  It's at that moment that the sound of heavy footsteps reverberates through the space and Alexander, the orchestrator of our torment, arrives, followed by another one of his bodyguards carrying something that looks like a television or a computer screen. Alexander is dressed in a suit that's even fancier than normal. As I squint with my swollen eyes, I see it's not even a suit—it's a tux.