Three days before the wedding, Eleanor Prescott invited both families to her estate in the Hudson Valley.

I brought my mother's recipe book in a small cherrywood box. The pastry chef was meeting me there to lock in the final dessert menu.

I heard laughter before I reached the kitchen.

Damian sat at the long marble counter, sleeves rolled up. Vanessa sat beside him. Between them lay a tray of half-folded ravioli, the dough dusted white.

She had flour on the tip of her nose.

He reached over and brushed it off with his thumb. Easy. Natural. Like he'd done it a hundred times.

Then he saw me in the doorway. His hand snapped back to the counter.

"You're early," he said.

"I'm on time."

"Sienna, darling!" Eleanor swept in from the hall, her silver bob perfect, her arms already open. She hugged me hard and smelled like lavender soap. "Come, sit. I've been counting the days."

"Thank you for having us, Eleanor."

"Don't thank me. Thank your mother." She squeezed my hands. "Do you know what I'm most excited about at the wedding? That osmanthus custard. Clara made it for me once, at a charity lunch. I still think about it."

My throat went tight. "She'd be so happy to hear that."

"Is that the recipe?" Vanessa was already off her stool, reaching for the box. "Oh, can I see? I love old cookbooks."

I closed the lid before her fingers landed.

"It's the last thing my mother left me," I said. "Please don't touch it."

Vanessa froze, hand in the air. Her lower lip shook.

"I was only curious," she whispered.

Damian set down the ravioli cutter. "Jesus, Sienna. You're so sensitive. She wasn't going to steal it."

"Then she won't mind not touching it."

Eleanor glanced between us. She said nothing. But she moved the box to the side table near the stove, out of everyone's way, and patted the lid twice.

---

Dinner was set in the long dining room. My father's cousin, Damian's parents, two aunts I barely knew.

Halfway through the soup, Damian's mother leaned toward me.

"And Vanessa will look lovely next to you at the altar. Lavender suits her."

I lowered my spoon. "Next to me?"

"As your bridesmaid, dear." She blinked. "Damian said it was settled."

Every face turned to me. I turned to him.

"You asked her to be my bridesmaid?"

He didn't even look up from his wine. "She's practically family. It made sense."

"No."

"Sienna."

"No, Damian. She's not standing beside me."

He set the glass down hard. Red wine shivered against the crystal. "It's my wedding too. I get a say."

"Then why," I asked, "does your ex-girlfriend get more say than your bride?"

Silence dropped over the table like a sheet.

An aunt coughed into her napkin. Damian's father stared at his plate.

Vanessa pressed a hand to her chest. Her chair scraped back. "I'm sorry. I didn't know I was such a burden."

She ran into the kitchen.

Damian shot me a look that could've cut glass. "Are you happy?"

I picked up my spoon again. "Eat your soup, Damian."

---

Five minutes later, Vanessa came back out.

She was smiling now, eyes still pink, carrying a copper saucepan with both hands. Behind her, the maid hurried with a tray of ramekins.

"Let me help," Vanessa said brightly. "It's the least I can do."

"Miss, that's hot," the maid said. "Please, let me—"

Vanessa turned toward the kitchen doorway. Her hip swung wide and clipped the side table.

The cherrywood box tipped. The lid flew open.

And the whole pot of boiling caramel poured straight onto my mother's book.

I was out of my chair before I knew I'd moved.

The syrup hissed. Brown sugar soaked through the pages. My mother's slanted handwriting bled and blurred and swam away under the gold.

I grabbed the book. The syrup seared the back of my hand like a brand.

I didn't drop it.

"Oh my God!" Vanessa stumbled back, clutching her wrist. "Damian!"

He was there in a second. Not with me. With her. One arm around her waist, steadying her like she was the one who'd been burned.

"Are you okay? Did it get you?"

"I don't know, I don't—"

He turned on me. "Why would you leave it right by the kitchen door? That was a stupid place for it."

I held the dripping book against my chest. My hand throbbed red. "Your grandmother put it there."

"Sienna, I'm so sorry." Vanessa's tears came fast now. "I'll pay for it. Anything. Tell me what it's worth."

Damian sighed, like this was all so tiring. "It's just a recipe. We can find another one online."

Something inside me split open.

"My mother is dead, Damian." My voice tore across the room. "Tell me where I can find another one of her!"

Nobody moved.

Then Vanessa stepped toward me, sobbing, and seized my burned hand. "Hit me, then. Go on, if it makes you feel better—"

She dragged my palm toward her cheek.

I yanked my hand back.

She flew backward like I'd thrown her. Her hip slammed the edge of the dining table. Glasses rattled. She crumpled to the floor.

"She pushed me!" she wailed. "Damian, she pushed me!"

Damian dropped to his knees beside her. When he looked up at me, his face was a stranger's.

"You're vicious," he said quietly. "I never knew how vicious you were."

"I didn't touch her."

"I saw it."

"Damian." Eleanor rose from her chair, gripping its back. "That's not what happened. I watched her grab Sienna's hand. Sienna only pulled away."

He didn't even turn his head toward his grandmother.

He scooped Vanessa into his arms. She curled against his chest, crying softly into his collar.

"I don't want to see you before the wedding," he told me. "Don't call me."

He carried her out the front door. A moment later, an engine roared and faded down the long gravel drive.

---

I knelt on the dining room floor.

The pages had come loose. I picked them up one at a time. Almond cookies, ruined. Plum cake, ruined. The custard, a brown smear where her words used to be.

Eleanor knelt slowly beside me. She didn't say anything. She just handed me pages.

The maid crouched on my other side. Her name was Rosa. She lowered her voice.

"Miss Monroe. There's a camera above the kitchen door. Mrs. Prescott put it in last year, after a break-in." She glanced at the doorway. "It points right at that table."

I stopped moving.

"Who has access?"

"Mr. Okonkwo. Head of security."

Ten minutes later, I stood in a small office off the garage with a tall man in a gray sweater.

"I need the original file," I said. "Not a copy. Lock it down. Nobody deletes it. Nobody edits it."

Mr. Okonkwo studied my bandaged hand. "Including Mr. Prescott?"

"Especially Mr. Prescott."

He looked at Eleanor, who had followed me in. She nodded once.

"Done," he said.

"Don't you want to show Damian tonight?" Eleanor asked me softly.

"No." I wrapped the ruined book in a dish towel. "He wouldn't watch it tonight anyway."

---

At midnight, back in the city, my phone lit up.

**Margaret Okafor:** Read page 14. Call me.

I opened the attachment.

Page fourteen of the prenup. A clause I had never seen. If the marriage ended for any reason within five years, Lune Atelier's brand rights would transfer to the Prescott family holding company.

Damian's signature sat at the bottom.

The line for mine was blank.

I called her.

"I never signed this," I said.

"I know," Margaret said. "Which means someone was planning to get you to sign it without reading. Or sign it for you."

I sat in the dark for a long time.

Then I opened my clutch. Inside, folded in clean tissue, was the only page that survived. The very last one. Sugar had stained the corner, but her handwriting was untouched.

*Never spend your life waiting for someone who wouldn't wait for you.*

I tucked it back in carefully. Then I texted Priya.

**Me:** Do not cancel the ceremony. I have a different plan.

Three dots appeared. Then:

**Priya:** What kind of plan?

I looked at the folder on my laptop. **Evidence.** It was getting full.

**Me:** The kind where everyone finally sees who ruined this marriage.

Three days.

Then the whole room would be watching.