The air in the Grand Biltmore Hotel bridal suite smelled overwhelmingly of white roses and expensive hairspray, a suffocating combination that had been making me slightly nauseous since seven that morning. I stared at my reflection in the gilded floor-to-ceiling mirror. The woman looking back at me was draped in ten thousand dollars of French silk and Alençon lace, her hair pinned into a flawless, architecturally impossible chignon. She looked like a woman who had won the lottery. She looked like a woman about to marry into the formidable Sterling family.
But beneath the heavy tulle and the tightly laced corset—which felt increasingly like a physical manifestation of my relationship with Harrison Sterling—a cold dread was beginning to coil in my gut.
“Fifteen minutes, Miss Vance,” the wedding coordinator, a hyperactive woman named Sylvia, chirped from the doorway. Her headset blinked with a tiny green light. “The string quartet is taking their seats. The groom is at the altar. It’s almost showtime.”
“Thank you, Sylvia,” I murmured, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.
I needed a moment to breathe. I needed to see my parents. They had arrived early, driving four hours from upstate in my father’s reliable, decade-old sedan. I had specifically asked Harrison to ensure they were comfortable, perhaps enjoying a glass of champagne in the VIP lounge before the ceremony.
I slipped out of the suite, lifting the heavy skirts of my gown to avoid snagging them on the plush carpet. The hallway outside the ballroom was a chaotic symphony of catering staff carrying silver trays and florists making last-minute adjustments to the floral arches.
