Chapter 2

Ivy

I woke up in Vivian's bed.

Velvet pillows, silk sheets — the kind of bed that should have guaranteed a good night's sleep. Instead I lay there turning it over and over in my mind, and the longer I thought about it, the more wrong it felt. Plan A, Plan C — all window dressing. What she needed was someone to stand in her place at the altar and marry a man she'd never met and didn't want. And Lane just happened to know I was looking for a way out of the factory, just happened to notice how much I looked like her, just happened to know that for the right price I'd take the job.

There are no coincidences like that in this world.

I sat up and reached under the pillow for my SIG SAUER P230. The magazine was full. Vivian didn't carry a weapon herself — this one was mine, brought along out of habit, for emergencies that hadn't materialized. Now it felt like dead weight. I got out of bed, field-stripped the gun, and distributed the pieces: the frame under the bed, the slide behind the vanity. The magazine I tucked separately at the bottom of the wardrobe.

I picked up the phone Vivian had left behind the night before. She'd walked me through a lot before she left — social media, bank accounts, email. She said it had taken her months to put it all together, all for this moment, waiting for a body double to show up. I opened her social media. She'd left almost no footprint online: few selfies, the occasional photo of a landscape, a meal, a race. The most recent post was from a week ago — several shots of the grounds around a riding track, and the only image that included her at all showed her in a helmet, her face unreadable even when zoomed in. The caption was a single horse racing emoji. I scrolled down through the comments and made note of the names that came up more than once: Chloe, Jane. Good. Not too many familiar faces to manage.

I went to the bathroom, showered, and changed into a clean robe. The woman in the mirror had long brown hair falling over her shoulders and sea-blue eyes looking back at me. Lane had given Vivian my full background, and he'd read me correctly — he knew I was already trying to find a way out of the factory.

He almost certainly did it on purpose.

I dried my hair with a towel, pulled on a slip, and then the phone screen lit up.

From "Mom": Stylist is here. Come down soon.

I stared at the message for a few seconds, then scrolled back to look at how Vivian usually replied. Margaret's texts were short; Vivian's were shorter — sometimes just OK or NO, sometimes IK or IDK, and sometimes nothing at all. I thought it over, then turned the screen off and set the phone aside.

Just before seven, someone knocked.

I crossed the room and opened the door. Margaret Clairmont stood in the hallway in a dark gray suit, her hair pinned up neatly, immaculately put together, a clutch in her hand. Behind her stood a butler carrying a case. She turned her head and told him to wait in the dressing room down the hall, then looked at me — her gaze rested on my face for just a moment — and walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

"Where is Vivian?"

Had she seen through it already? It didn't matter. I'd promised Vivian to keep the secret, so there was nothing to say to that.

Margaret raised an eyebrow when I didn't answer, folded her arms, and looked at me steadily.

"You're not here to kill anyone, are you?"

That one I could answer. I shook my head. If she'd somehow gotten the idea that I'd done something to Vivian, it would be over before it started. But her expression was completely still — not the face of a mother in a panic over a missing daughter.

"I thought as much."

My stomach dropped. How long had she known? Had she seen through it last night? Vivian, you really did leave me holding the pieces. I hadn't expected your mother to be this sharp.

The corner of Margaret's mouth pulled into something that was more mockery than smile. She set her clutch on the table, opened it, and removed a small, elegant box covered in dark blue velvet. Of course. We looked that much alike — one glance the night before would have been enough. And Margaret was her mother; she would know better than anyone what her daughter was thinking.

"We ran checks on everyone who came onto the estate," she said, opening the box. "The butler told me you were new. Your letter of introduction came from a firm we've worked with for years — except that firm doesn't do domestic staffing."

She gestured for me to sit at the vanity mirror, her fingers resting on the clasp of the jewelry box. I sat down. I hadn't eaten, but my stomach felt unsettled regardless.

"All right," I said. "Vivian hired me."

She let out a small breath, opened the box, and lifted out a sapphire necklace. "Did she." She moved behind me and held it up against my throat; the metal was cold where it touched my skin. "If she'd actually been clever enough to think of a substitution on her own, she would have understood why this marriage matters."

She fastened the clasp. "Did she tell you anything about Robert?"

I shook my head. Vivian hadn't gone into detail the night before. Margaret was asking now either to find out how much I knew, or simply because she wanted to say it out loud.

"Such a waste. Vivian actually believed that man loved her. And him? He only ever wanted the Clairmont name."

So that was it. She wanted to say that Vivian had thrown everything away for a man after the family's money, left this wedding for someone else to clean up, and run off to find him.

Which made me — what, exactly?

She came back around to face me, looked at the necklace, and gave a single satisfied nod. "What's your name?"

"Ivy Cross."

"Forget that name. Wherever Vivian has gone, the bride today must be a Clairmont daughter."

Forget it. Easy enough to say — though as it happened, Ivy Cross was already an alias, so adopting another name wasn't much of a stretch. She leaned in, studying my face, then said, "Give me your hand."

I held out my hand, palm up.

"I used to take Vivian hunting when she was young. You know how to handle a gun?"

I'd used rifles before. Not only for deer. I nodded, and she released my hand and fastened a bracelet around my wrist.

"Vivian was loud — never a quiet moment, not from the time she was small. You're the opposite. Too quiet." She glanced at me in the mirror. "If you were a little more self-centered, a little more particular about things, you'd be more convincing."

Was she — giving me notes? No. She was telling me how to play the role better. I nearly said thank you out loud, and stopped myself. She opened another box and held a small pair of earrings up beside my ear.

"Of course," she added, "don't forget who you are."

I took the earrings and put them on.

"If something goes wrong — if the Sinclairs start to suspect you — here is what you say." She closed the jewelry box and returned it to her clutch, then stood beside me, one hand resting on my shoulder as we both looked into the mirror. "I was young and foolish. I've spent years feeling the weight of it. I only found you recently. Vivian couldn't bear the news, and she left after a terrible argument with me the night before the wedding. You are standing here in her place because you chose to acknowledge me as your mother."

Her expression didn't shift once while she said it.

"Do you understand?"

She didn't care what the bride at this wedding wanted. She cared only that the wedding happened. Vivian had been a means to an end — so Vivian had paid a great deal of money to find me, and walked out the door to go find her Robert.

"I understand," I said.

"Good. Come along — the dressing room is waiting."

I followed her out. The hallway was already busy, people moving in every direction; someone called out Vivian or Ms. Clairmont as we passed, and I nodded. A nod couldn't give me away. There was no time to think about it any further.

The dressing room door was half-open. Inside were a stylist, a makeup artist, and a young dark-haired woman in a bridesmaid's dress leaning against the window with a cup of coffee. Margaret pushed me through the door and was gone before I could turn around. Fine. Vivian had walked me through what to expect, and I could manage the rest.

"Vivian!" The stylist came forward — a woman in her mid-forties with a slight French accent. "You're finally here, we're running a little behind, we'll need to move quickly." She held out a white dress.

A wedding gown.

I was actually going to wear a wedding gown. Somehow I hadn't thought about that part until right now.

I took it from her and went into the changing room to put it on. The satin was smooth under my fingers — I touched it longer than I needed to. The cut at the waist was exactly right, and the neckline was traced with a fine pattern of embroidery. If I'm being honest, there was something strange about being nervous for a wedding that was technically my first. In other circumstances I would have checked my equipment. There was nothing here to check.

I took a slow breath, walked back out, and let the others fuss over the hem and train before I sat down in front of the mirror again.

Who am I?

The makeup artist began working — primer, foundation, concealer, eyeshadow — and I closed my eyes. Then the door opened again.

"Oh my God!" someone exclaimed.

I opened my eyes. Two more women in bridesmaid dresses had come in. The blonde was Jane Bishop, a friend from Vivian's university years who had stayed in regular contact — I'd seen her name in the comments on almost every post Vivian had made. The redhead was Chloe Valentine, a childhood friend whose family had business ties to the Clairmonts; Vivian had described her as blunt but genuinely kind.

"Vivi, you look absolutely stunning today," Jane said, looking me up and down.

"Truly beautiful," Chloe agreed, studying me from the side. "Though you're very quiet today."

Quiet. "Didn't sleep well?" Jane asked.

Was Vivian usually louder than this? I considered whether I should be saying more.

"You look nervous," Chloe said, glancing at Jane. "Well — it is Sinclair, after all."

Nervous. Yes. That worked. The makeup artist was applying eyeshadow and had pressed a little hard with the base color; I lifted the hand mirror to check, and that was when I spoke.

It was too heavy. Too dark. This didn't look like how Vivian wore her makeup — the photos on her phone all showed something much more natural.

"Stop," I said.

The makeup artist paused. "Pardon?"

"It's too heavy. It doesn't look natural." I frowned at the mirror. "It's a wedding. I want something softer for the eyes."

Was that the right reaction? Was it too much? "See, I told her," Jane said, laughing as she came over. "You slipped out so early last night — we thought something had happened to you."

"I was just tired."

They launched into a recap of the bachelorette party after that — who had drunk too much, who had made a scene, all the things I'd apparently missed. Vivian had given me enough detail the night before that I could follow along and add a word here and there without raising suspicions. But every time I opened my mouth I ran the same check first: Is this something Vivian would say? It was exhausting.

"Honestly," Jane said, dropping her voice, "did you not talk to Robert at all last night?"

Chloe reached over and tugged her arm, a clear signal to let it go. Jane pulled a face. "I'm just asking."

"Jane, Chloe —" The door opened again. A bridesmaid with short brown hair stood in the doorway, looking toward us. "The cars are ready outside."

The dark-haired woman by the window set down her coffee and stood. She had been different from the others the whole time — quiet, watching. Jane leaned close and nudged my arm. "Willow. She's with your fiancé."

My fiancé. Sebastian Sinclair's people.

Willow paused at the door when she saw me looking at her, and looked back. "Let go of the past," she said, and then she turned and left.

Let go of the past. What past? What did she mean?

The makeup artist dusted on a little blush and traced the lip liner. "All done."

The woman in the mirror wore a white gown, her hair pinned up with the kind of precision that looked effortless, the sapphire necklace and earrings catching the light against her skin.

The person who should have been standing here was Vivian Clairmont. But she had gone to find Robert.

Forget Ivy Cross. There was no Ivy Cross here — only a Clairmont daughter, a Sinclair bride. That was the role. That was all there was.

The morning outside was bright. The motorcade waited at the front of the estate, black cars with white floral arrangements on the hoods; an attendant held the door, and I ducked inside. Through the window I watched the manor fall away behind us, the gray stone walls swallowed by the tree line. On either side of the road the grounds opened into wide lawns, and in the distance the sea was visible — gray-blue, merging with the sky — and above the headland a pale stone church stood at the water's edge. People in formal dress were already gathered at the doors in small clusters, talking. A photographer was directing a group shot, flashes going off.

The whole affair was more elaborate than I'd expected. By the time I was finally standing at the altar, I had no energy left for anything beyond what was directly in front of me. The minister spoke at length — love, duty, fidelity — the words landing one after another in the quiet of the church. I stood there and looked at the man across from me.

Sebastian Sinclair was, objectively, very good-looking. His hair was combed back neatly, his features sharp, his nose straight, the cut of his suit exactly right. But his mouth was pressed into a thin line, and there was a coldness to the set of his jaw that made me think he didn't quite know what to do with any of this either.

The minister was still going. I had no idea there were this many words in a wedding ceremony. By now Vivian was probably already on a boat. Where would Robert take her? Would she be happy, with that new name and that new life? Maybe, if you wanted to be generous about it, she was finally free.

And me?

"…in wealth or in want…for any reason whatsoever…do you?" the minister asked him.

He held my hands in his.

"I do." The way he smiled when he said it was genuinely gentle. Was this really the marriage Vivian had worked so hard to escape?

The minister turned to me, substituted the pronoun, and asked the question again.

"…do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?"

At this point, there was no other answer I could give.

"I do."