Page 40 of Arrow

“The first dance will take place here.” Mrs. Montalto gestured with a flourish. “We’ll dim the chandelier lights and use pin spots to create an intimate atmosphere as you and Mr. Romanov share your first dance as husband and wife.”

Bile rose in my throat at her saccharine tone. There would be nothing intimate about being paraded around this dance floor like a prized mare. Arrow’s fingers pressed harder against my spine, as if he could sense my disgust.

“What song have you chosen?” Mrs. Montalto asked, glancing between us with expectant eyes.

“We haven’t,” I said flatly.

At the same time, Arrow said, “Tchaikovsky’s ‘Valse Sentimentale.’”

I turned to him, unable to mask my surprise. “Classical? Really?”

His eyes held mine, unreadable and cold. “Did you expect death metal, Harlowe?”

“I expected something less romantic,” I admitted, hating the way his mouth curved at my discomfort.

“Romance has nothing to do with it,” he replied. “It’s tradition.”

Mrs. Montalto beamed, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “Tchaikovsky is perfect! So elegant, so timeless.” She scribbled on her clipboard. “Now, shall we discuss the cake cutting? We’ve positioned it just there, beneath the second archway.”

As she droned on about fondant and sugar flowers, my gaze drifted to the vaulted ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, catching light that spilled through the stained-glass windows and cast rainbows across the venue.

“Miss Virelli?” Mrs. Montalto’s voice pulled me back. “I asked if you’d like to see the bridal suite?”

“Of course,” I replied.

We followed her through a side door and up a winding staircase. The bridal suite was cream and gold, with a chaise lounge by a window overlooking Central Park. A vanity was positioned in the corner, surrounded by lights for hair and makeup. It was the kind of room where blushing brides were supposed to giggle with their bridesmaids and sip champagne.

“You’ll prepare here,” Mrs. Montalto explained. “We’ve scheduled hair and makeup to arrive at noon. The ceremony begins at four.”

I walked to the window and pressed my palm against the glass, staring out at the people below before turning to face him. “And where will you be?” I asked Arrow.

“Two doors down,” he replied. “Close enough to hear when you try something stupid.”

Mrs. Montalto’s smile faltered. “Well! I’ll give you two a moment while I check on the floral arrangements.” She backed out of the room, her heels clicking down the marble hallway.

When the door closed behind her, the air thickened, suffocatingly so.

Arrow’s reflection appeared in the window beside mine, his face impassive as he studied me. I refused to turn around, watching him through the glass instead.

“You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” he said quietly, his eyes dropping to the visible bruises I’d deliberately left exposed. “The collar. The marks. What point are you trying to prove?”

“That I’m not yours yet,” I replied, turning to face him. “I belong to no one.”

He moved closer, crowding me against the window. “Every mark on your body belongs to me now, whether I put it there or not.” His finger traced the edge of the collar. “Even this.”

“Is that why you came on stage at La Lune Noire? To stake your claim?”

“I came because you looked at me.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, but his eyes were hard as steel. “You broke your own rules, Harlowe. You acknowledged me in the middle of your performance.”

I swallowed, hating how my pulse jumped when he said my name. “It was a mistake.”

“It was a surrender.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek. “Small, but significant.”

“Fuck you,” I whispered, but there was no heat behind it. I was too tired, too raw from everything—the club, the wedding preparations, the collar around my neck, the A carved into my hip.

“I’m sure you’d like that,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “Another way to fight me.”

I stepped sideways, needing distance from his heat, his scent, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the room.