Page 9 of Arrow

“If you don’t show up for the cake tasting, Arrow will pick the flavor for you.”

I made it my private mission to frustrate her at every opportunity.

At our fourth fitting, I brought a bottle of limoncello and a pair of kitchen shears, and performed a live amputation on the dress’s fondant-pearl “train,” just to see if she’d cry.

She didn’t.

Instead, she said, “I’ll order extra,” and made a note.

Arrow showed up at the first joint wedding appointment four minutes early, which was a declaration of war in a city where no one arrived less than ten minutes late if they had power. He entered the sky-high suite on Park with a professional silence. Mrs. Montalto peeled off at the whisper of his name.

He wore a three-piece suit the color of a thunderstorm, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a dagger tattoo pointing upward, ending just below his chin. I felt him before I saw him, a charge zipping across my jaw and down my spine. He sat, ankles crossed, while I let the stylist brush lacquer into my hair and dab at the violent red lipstick on my mouth.

His eyes met the mirror’s, never flickering away, focused only on my face, or more precisely, the way my face changed every time I noticed he was still watching.

By the third pass, I refused to look away.

“A pleasure, Harlowe,” he said, when the room was just us, his voice sanding down to silk.

“Strange word choice, considering the circumstances.”

He considered my reflection, then my neck, where I’d left the Cartier collar for the occasion, and finally my hands, folding and unfolding themselves in my lap.

“Circumstances are just terms of engagement,” he said, and smiled as if he’d already won.

“You make it sound like a war.” I cracked my knuckles beneath the white sheet, feigning boredom, but watching him through the veil of mascara and years of hate.

Arrow’s mouth quirked. “It is a war.” He leaned in, voice dropping so only I could hear. “But if you want to end it, you just have to surrender.”

The moment was intimate, even though the makeup girl ducked away to clear her kit, pretending she couldn’t hear the loaded weapons in our voices. His eyes were gray again today, and where most men’s eyes bristled with calculation, Arrow’s held nothing but a cold familiarity with violence, like he’d been born knowing how to end things.

I twisted in the chair to face him directly. The stylist’s hands fluttered away, and the room stilled again.

“If you think I’ll lie back and make this easy for you, you’re as naïve as my father thinks I am.” The words came out too soft, almost breathy, and I bit my tongue, drawing blood that made me shiver with shame.

Arrow’s gaze flickered to my mouth, and for a fraction of a second, his composure cracked. He leaned in, enough to smell the salt and sugar from where I’d licked the limoncello off my finger.

He didn’t bother lowering his voice. “I don’t care about easy. I care about obedience . . . and spectacle.” His thumb brushed a stray hair from my temple with an intimacy so calculated it felt borrowed from a lover instead of a weapon. “We’re going to be a myth, Harlowe. The city will write songs about us.”

I dug my nails into my palm, steadying myself. “You sound like you’re in love with yourself.”

Arrow considered the charge with his usual lack of embarrassment. “Perhaps. But I’m more interested in what happens when you decide to stop fighting.”

I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to claw the words out of his mouth before he could plant them in my skull. Instead, I met his stare.

“I’d rather die than marry you.”

He smiled politely, then cocked his head. “I can arrange for either, but it would disappoint your father.”

“Make me a widow, and he’ll get over it.”

Arrow Romanov stood, smoothed two non-existent wrinkles from his trousers, and looked down with enough authority to flatten the walls.

“One way or another, you’ll wear white, Harlowe, and you’ll wear it well.” His hand ghosted over the space near my cheek, a warning that I could almost taste. “You have two months to get the rebellion out of your system.”

He left without another word. He didn’t need one.

The next week was worse than the wounds that still blossomed blue and purple on my thighs. I drank, I smoked everything Frank refused to throw away, and I ruined three more wedding dress fittings. I told him I’d rather swallow drain cleaner than go through with it. He just nodded, and I saw him tearing up in the rearview mirror.