Chapter 8

The estate had been transformed. When I stepped out of my room on the morning of the wedding, I barely recognized the grounds. White roses everywhere—spilling from urns, woven through trellises, scattered across the lawn like fallen snow. A white aisle runner stretched across the main lawn, flanked by rows of wooden chairs draped in cream linen. The fountain where I had met Arthur the first night was ringed with ivy and baby's breath. It looked like a dream. And I felt like I was walking through someone else's. I had barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face in the morning light, felt the weight of his silence after my confession. I had lain awake, replaying the moment, wondering if I had ruined everything. But when I saw him at breakfast—sitting at the far end of the buffet table, a cup of coffee in his hand, engaged in conversation with Chloe's father—his expression gave nothing away. He was charming, relaxed, the perfect gentleman. He didn't look at me any differently than he looked at the waitstaff. I forced myself to eat a piece of toast. It tasted like cardboard. The morning passed in a blur