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“It’s not my life,” I say. “It’s three months.” The makeup artist instructs me to look up while she applies mascara. “The public is primed for the wedding. When photos from today get leaked, Nick’s reputation will get even more of a boost.”

“Right,” Mason drawls. An underreaction, considering this might be some of the best public relations work I’ve ever done. I side-eye him, and he sighs. “It just seems risky. You’ll get married, Nick will get a new reputation and control of Harwood Restaurant Group, and you’ll get … what?”

“What do you mean? He’s paying my dad’s debts.”

“But why did he pick you? If any of the tabloids investigate who you are, those fake posts about your dad are going to be in the spotlight again. People won’t forget as easily this time, especially after his daughter’s divorce. You could be right back where you started.”

“My dad won his lawsuit,” I say.

Mason shrugs. “You and I both know the public doesn’t care about that.”

“I can still work to protect my privacy.” I’ve already prepped Nick on what I’ll do to safeguard my identity: I won’t give my name to the press; I’ll delete all my socials; I’ll be careful not to tell anyone in Nick’s world my real last name.

“It’s not that simple, Sienna.”

“I don’t do simple, Mason,” I tell him. “You know I love a challenge to sink my teeth into.” And instead of focusing on the tug I get in my stomach when I think about living in Nick’s penthouse, I can focus on the business wins for Charters. “There’s something about this whole situation, about him, that just feels right, despite everything.”

“Trust the process?”

“Trust the process.”

“Okay.” He nods—I can tell he isn’t satisfied, but we’ve said everything there is to say. “I trust you. Don’t trip out there, bitch.”

“Love you too,” I say with a smile, and he heads out to meet Lena in the courthouse.

Silence sweeps in. I watch the makeup artist swipe highlighter onto my cheeks, thinking,I’m up to the task.I’ve told myself that a million times this week. Despite the risks, I can do this. I can be whoever I want.

High-powered PR executive? Absolutely.

Dedicated daughter? Any day of the week.

Bad bitch? With every breath I take.

Blushing bride?

Why the hell not?

“Mrs. Harwood,” the artist says, breaking me from my thoughts.

“Uh—yes?”

“We’re ready for you in the dressing room.”

A few minutes later, I’m staring at myself in an elaborate, pearl-white mermaid dress and long cathedral veil. My hair cascades over my shoulders in natural, loose curls, glossy and black. There’s patterned lace running up my arms and across my chest, and the line of the dress clings to my hips and thighs, ending in a delicate flare at my knees.

Even I’mstunned speechless for a moment.If I were a real bride, I’d be the prettiest real bride I’d ever seen.

I stay quiet as the style team fusses with the dress and veil, perfecting every fall of fabric, every bead. I think about my mom and dad, who asked very few questions about this whole thing once I made it clear our financial problems would be solved. I think about the money wired into my account yesterday, and the first morning in months I didn’t wake up to a low-balance notification from my bank.

A powerful sense of awareness settles over me.

I’m up to the task.

“They’re ready for you.”

“Okay.”

The doors open and I walk into my marriage ceremony.