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One

Becca

Y our wedding day is supposed to be a dream come true.

Right? You’re all done up and beautiful, wearing the ultimate dress.

Feeling like a princess. Friends and family watch you walk down the aisle, smiling and wiping away happy tears.

And there, standing waiting for you, ready to tie the knot in front of everyone you know and love is… your fiance.

The person you love more than anyone in the world. The person you’re about to spend the rest of your life with.

Yeah, none of that shit is happening for me. I’m bundled into a white dress I’ve never seen before in my life, while strangers do my hair and makeup, and none of this is how I dreamed it would be as a little girl.

I’m a sheep being readied for market—albeit in a fancy dressing room in a manor house, rather than a barn.

“Don’t fuss,” my aunt Prue says as I tug at the dress seams, trying to get it to lie properly against my body. The lace trim itches. “It’s made to your exact measurements. There’s no reason to act like today is such a trial for you, Becca.”

Hey, maybe I’d be cooler about all this if I could have picked my own dress.

I bet I’d be thrilled if I could’ve picked my own fiance .

But that’s not how the Pritchard family does things.

That’s not how any of the wealthy, uptight, always-tactical families in our set do things.

Once we’re of age, we’re matched carefully in mysterious meetings in mahogany drawing rooms. We’re all pieces in some grand chess game, being moved around the board, carefully balancing the power between the elites.

And that is why my shoulder-length red hair is being brushed and teased and braided into an updo.

That is why a middle aged woman with coffee-breath is painting make-up onto my face, erasing every blemish and flaw.

She contours the crap out of me, too, until I barely recognize myself in the dressing room mirror.

I look like an alien. Like one of those Instagram models.

My fiance will have a shock once he finally sees me without makeup. He’ll wonder if his new wife has been body swapped.

“I don’t know anything about Tristan Peters.

” Cold fingers fasten the buttons on my dress, trailing up from the base of my spine to my mid back.

There are so many strangers’ hands on me right now, and every muscle in my body is bunched tight.

“We’ve met, like, twice. And we barely spoke either time. ”

Aunt Prue sighs, her focus now fixed squarely on her phone. She taps out a message, manicured nails clacking against the screen. “Don’t fuss,” she says again. “You think I knew your uncle when we got married? And look at us now.”

It’s a good thing my aunt is so fixated on her phone, because this time my nose really does wrinkle. The make-up lady huffs and raises her groomed eyebrows until I carefully blank my features again.

But seriously. My aunt and uncle have one of the blandest, coldest marriages I’ve ever seen in my life. Sure, they somehow squeezed out two sons, but they barely spend time in the same room. They don’t love each other; they tolerate each other. Out of duty.

My own parents are the same. And so are my other aunts and uncles; so is my older sister and her recent husband. All of them are cool and refined and completely joyless.

In truth, that is the future I’ve always expected for myself. Forget those little-girl daydreams about marrying my soulmate; I’ve known for a long, long time that my life was leading me here. To a fine silk dress that itches my neck.

And I’ve been okay with that.

Well… resigned to it, anyway.

But on the drive up the mountain path to this old, gilded manor, I glimpsed something through the tinted car window. Something that stopped the breath in my chest and made my knees go all sweaty against the fine leather seats. Something that made the world tilt sideways and my ears ring.

Okay, this is gonna sound really dumb. But stay with me.

It was a pair of squirrels. Two fluffy gray squirrels, chasing each other up a tree trunk, their puffy tails bobbing.

They swirled around each other and waited for the other to catch up; they skittered and chittered and wrapped up together, tails entwined.

The seat belt cut into my collarbone as I jerked forward, eyes fixed on those two little critters, then the car swept on and they were gone.

It was over so fast.

Just the tiniest glimpse.

But as I sat back in the car, my heart started pounding in my chest. My vision blurred.

Suddenly, it was too hot in the vehicle, too airless, all that machinery rumbling around us.

Even through the tinted windows, the sun was too bright.

I smacked at the controls, cracking the window open a few inches, a crisp mountain breeze flooding into the car—before someone huffed and overrode my controls, closing the window and cranking up the air con instead.

“Please,” I croaked, a desperate bride on the way to her wedding venue.

In the front passenger seat, my father was on the phone with his solicitor about something.

Oblivious. Beside me, my mother and Aunt Prue were murmuring about some scandalous affair at the golf club, far too wrapped up in their gossip to notice or care about my meltdown.

The driver caught my eye in the rear view mirror, but looked away quickly. He knew better than to interfere.

So, yeah. I saw two squirrels this morning on the drive up here, and I’ve been jittery with panic ever since. Because those two little critters seemed more in love than any of the humans I’ve been around lately.

“Do you think animals can be romantic?” My voice sounds weird in this plush dressing room. Strangled.

The make up lady blinks at my question, her thick, dark eyelashes batting like crows’ wings. She pauses with the eyeliner held just beneath my eye. “Animals? Romantic?”

I shrug, making whoever is fastening my hundreds of buttons tut behind me. “Yeah. You know, like when swans mate for life. Do you think they love each other?”

Aunt Prue finally looks up from her phone, spearing the make up lady with a stern look. “Ignore her. Becca has decided to make a scene today, it seems.”

A scene?

I’m standing still, aren’t I? I’m letting them dress me, paint my face, tug my hair, get me prepped. All so they can marry me off to a strange, cold man who will barely tolerate me.

Those squirrels scamper through my brain for the hundredth time. My palms are clammy, and I blot them against the finest ivory silk.

Maybe I should make a scene.

Maybe it would feel good to shout and stomp and tear the hairpins from my hair. It’s insane what we’re doing here. How is everyone so okay with this?

How did my mother and sister and aunts all bear their own wedding days? Were they mad too? Did they secretly want to push the ornamental cake over and rip their gowns into shreds?

“I’m sorry.” My lips are numb, but I force them into a polite smile. “You’re right, Aunt Prue. I’m being unreasonable.”

She nods and goes back to her phone, nails clacking away. “You’ll feel better once they serve the champagne,” she tells the screen. “I did.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Um, could you all excuse me for just one minute? I need to use the restroom.”

All those pairs of strange hands lift away from my body, and my stomach swoops with relief.

“Down the hall on the left,” the make up lady says, jerking her chin at the door. “Make sure no one sees you. We’re not done yet.”

“Of course. I’ll be quick.”

“Do you need help with the dress?”

“No, no. I’ll be careful.”

My hurried steps are muffled by thick carpet. My hand is sweaty, slipping against the doorknob, but I get it open and then close it swiftly behind me.

This area of the manor house is hushed this morning. Empty. Distantly, the sounds of wedding preparations seep from elsewhere in the building, and the buzz of murmured conversation floats through the dressing room door. My breaths are loud. Ragged.

They’re probably talking about me in there. I could put my ear to the crack and eavesdrop; I could hear what those strangers and my aunt really think of today’s blushing bride.

But I don’t linger. Because I don’t care. Movements jerky, I kick off my heels and scoop up the long skirt of my dress, crumpling the silk in my hands, then take off running down the hall.

They might not be done yet, but I sure am.

* * *

It’s almost too easy to sneak out the back of the manor house.

No one sees me; no one yells. They’re all caught up in their own worlds, with jobs to do and people to schmooze.

I’m a silk-clad blur, darting past open doorways and sprinting down halls before bursting out of an open door into the sloping gardens.

We’re too high up on the mountainside for much plant growth, but some enterprising gardeners have somehow coaxed flowers to life in raised planters, and it’s a riot of color as I flee down stone steps and past manicured hedges.

Bored statues watch me flee, trails of ivy climbing up their bodies. Strangling their throats.

The air is fresh and cool. It’s a sunny day, with puffs of cloud skidding past high overhead. The sky is vivid turquoise, and I’m so freaking relieved to be outside at last, even as I sprint for freedom.

My bare feet pound against the stone path, and my dress whips around my legs as I run. They’ll find my heels soon, but with any luck they’ll just think I’m careless. Unreliable.

What will happen if they catch me? They can’t make me marry Tristan Peters, can they?

My heart clenches in my chest, and my arms pump as I run faster through the mountainside gardens. The slope is steep but I don’t falter, because I know the truth: with enough money, you can do anything. The rules don’t apply to families like ours.