Chapter 3

The week that was supposed to be my countdown to hell turned into a circus of wedding preparations. Vincent insisted on being involved in every detail, which meant his hands on me during every fitting, every meeting, every goddamn moment.

The bridal boutique smelled like expensive fabric and my own anxiety. Vincent sat in his wheelchair by the platform, watching as I stepped out in the wedding dress—white silk that clung to every curve, making me feel more exposed than protected.

"Turn around," he ordered, his voice thick with something that made my skin crawl.

I turned slowly, the dress swishing around my legs. Behind me, I heard his breathing quicken.

"Perfect." He gestured me closer. "Come here, darling. Let me see you properly."

My feet moved on autopilot. The moment I was within reach, his hand shot out and pulled me onto his lap. The wheelchair groaned under our combined weight.

"Vincent—" I tried to stand, but his grip was iron.

"Just like this," he murmured into my neck, his hands roaming my waist. "This is how you'll look when you're mine. Let me just—" His fingers found the buttons at my back, starting to undo them.

Panic flooded through me. We were in public. The boutique staff was just outside. But Vincent didn't care. He never cared.

"Dad." Adrian's voice cut through the room like a blade. "The seamstress says the bodice needs to be taken in."

I'd never been so grateful to hear his voice.

Vincent's hands stilled, then reluctantly released me. "Fine. Go get it fixed."

I practically ran back to the dressing room, my hands shaking so badly I could barely work the buttons. Through the thin wall, I heard Adrian's cold voice.

"She's not yours yet. Show some restraint."

Vincent laughed—that wet, ugly sound that haunted my nightmares. "Jealous? Don't worry, you'll get used to having a young stepmother around. Maybe she'll even call you 'baby' like the good boy you are."

Silence. Then Adrian's footsteps, walking away.

I pressed my forehead against the mirror, trying to breathe. That was Monday. By Wednesday morning, everything changed.

Vincent collapsed during breakfast. One moment he was telling me how excited he was for our wedding night, the next he was on the floor, gasping for air. The ambulance came. The doctors talked about his heart, about stress, about time running out. The wedding was postponed indefinitely.

For the first time, I could breathe without his hands on me.

It was past midnight when I finally left Vincent's hospital room. The corridor was empty except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of monitors. I leaned against the wall, letting exhaustion wash over me.

"You should go home."

I jerked upright. Adrian stood at the end of the hallway. He walked toward me with that predatory grace I'd started to recognize.

"I'm fine," I said automatically.

"You're not." He stopped a few feet away, studying me through those wire-rimmed glasses. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I haven't."

"Because of him."

It wasn't a question. I didn't answer.

Adrian moved closer, and suddenly the empty hallway felt too small. "Are you really going to go through with this? Marry him?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes." The word came out rough. "You do."

I laughed bitterly. "Right. And live with your family's debt collectors breaking my legs? Or maybe my father's legs, wherever the hell he is?"

"I'll pay the debt." Adrian's eyes locked on mine. "Every cent. Come with me instead."

My heart stopped. "What?"

"Leave with me. Tonight. I'll handle everything—the debt, the family, all of it." He took another step closer. "You don't have to marry him, Iris."

"And then what?" My voice came out sharper than intended. "I'd owe you instead? Is that how this works?"

His jaw tightened. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Adrian?" I pushed off the wall, closing the distance between us. "What do you want from me?"

He went still. I could see his chest rising and falling, faster than normal.

"You want the truth?"

I nodded, even though part of me screamed to run.

Adrian moved suddenly, his hand slamming against the wall beside my head. Caging me in. His face was inches from mine, close enough that I could see gold flecks in his eyes behind those glasses.

"I want you," he said, each word deliberate. "I want to take you away from him. I want to hear you say my name instead of his. I want—" He stopped, his throat working.

"Want what?" I barely recognized my own voice.

"I want you in my bed, not his." His free hand came up to cup my face. "I want to touch you the way he does, except you'd actually want it. I want—fuck, Iris, I want everything."

Then he kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, consuming, like he'd been drowning and I was air. His hand tangled in my hair while the other gripped my waist, pulling me against him until there was no space left between us.

I should have pushed him away. Should have remembered that he was supposed to be my stepson. That this was wrong on every conceivable level.

Instead, I kissed him back.

My hands found his shirt, fisting in the expensive fabric as I opened my mouth to him. He groaned, backing me harder against the wall. His lips moved to my jaw, my neck, leaving a trail of heat.

"This is wrong," I gasped out.

"I know." His teeth grazed my collarbone. "I don't fucking care anymore."

"Your father—"

"Screw my father." He bit down, making me whimper. "You're mine, Iris. Say it."

"I'm your stepmother—"

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and wild. "Then call me 'son,'" he whispered against my lips. "See what happens to this 'mother' when you do."

His hand slid up my thigh, fingers finding the edge of my skirt—

"Mr. Russo!" A nurse's voice echoed down the hallway. "Your father's awake!"

We sprang apart like we'd been electrocuted. Adrian stepped back, running a hand through his now-disheveled hair. I tried to straighten my clothes with shaking hands, painfully aware of how swollen my lips must be.

The nurse appeared around the corner, oblivious to what she'd interrupted. "He's asking for both of you."

Vincent looked fragile in the hospital bed, hooked up to too many machines. But his eyes were sharp as they tracked us walking in—taking in my rumpled dress, Adrian's loosened tie, the flush that probably still colored my cheeks.

"Iris." He held out a weak hand. "Come here, sweetheart."

I forced my feet to move. His fingers closed around mine, surprisingly strong.

"I've been thinking," he said, his gaze sliding to Adrian, then back to me. "I don't want to wait anymore. We'll have the wedding in three days. Here, in the hospital chapel."

My stomach dropped.

"The doctors said—" Adrian started.

"I don't care what the doctors said." Vincent pulled me closer, his eyes never leaving Adrian's face. "I'm not letting another day pass without making her my wife."

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it slowly, deliberately. Making a show of it.

"What do you think, Adrian?" The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. "Ready to call her 'mother'?"

Adrian stood perfectly still, a file folder crumpling in his grip. "Whatever you want, Dad."

"Good boy." Vincent smiled, that shark-like grin I'd learned to fear. "Three days, Iris. Then you'll finally be Mrs. Russo."

I felt Adrian's stare burning into me, but I couldn't look at him. Couldn't face what I'd see in those eyes. When we finally left the room, I headed straight for the elevator, but Adrian caught my wrist.

"Three days," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "In three days, when you're at that altar, I'm taking you out of there."

"Are you insane?" I whispered, glancing at Vincent's door.

"For you? I can be even more insane." He pulled me closer. "You kissed me back. You wanted it as much as I did."

I couldn't deny it.