I found them in the bridal suite. My fiancé and my sister. Twenty minutes before I was supposed to walk down the aisle. Marco's jacket was on the floor. Isabelle's veil was still in her hair. They didn't even hear me open the door. That was the moment I stopped being the girl who believed in love.

I stood there in three thousand dollars of white silk, holding a bouquet of peonies my mother had picked herself, and I watched the two people I trusted most in the world destroy everything I thought I was building. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. Something in me went very, very quiet.

I closed the door. I walked back down the hallway. The wedding planner was waving at me from the top of the stairs, pointing at her watch. Two hundred guests were already seated. The string quartet was playing. My father was waiting at the bottom of the aisle.

I kept walking. Past the stairs. Past the chapel doors. Out through the side entrance, into the parking lot, still in my dress, still holding the peonies.

That's where I found him. Dante Moretti. Leaning against a black car, smoking, watching me like he'd been expecting me. I'd seen him before — at Marco's business dinners, always at the edge of the room, always watching. Marco called him a business associate. Everyone else called him something they wouldn't say out loud.