Chapter 5

Kenia Hayes POV

The penthouse was less a home and more a gilded cage.

Holden had taken my phone, my laptop, and even my shoes.

He left me with nothing but the view of the city I couldn't touch, taunting me behind reinforced glass.

Three days into my imprisonment, a maid smuggled in a burner phone.

She was new. Young. And her eyes held a dangerous amount of pity.

"Mr. Evans," she whispered, her hands trembling as she handed me the device wrapped in a linen napkin. "I saw it on the news. I thought... I thought you should know."

I hid in the bathroom, locked the door, and turned it on.

The headline was the first thing I saw, glaring at me in bold black letters.

*Art Curator Found Dead. Heart Attack Suspected.*

Mr. Evans.

My mentor. The only father figure I had ever known.

My breath hitched, turning into a strangled sob. I scrolled down, desperate for it to be a mistake.

There were rumors of an audit. Money laundering charges brought against his gallery by an anonymous tip.

The Dalton family.

They had squeezed him. They had stressed his old heart until it gave out, just to punish me for the scene at the gala.

I sank to the floor, clutching the phone to my chest as if it contained his heartbeat.

A chime echoed through the silent apartment.

A delivery notification.

The elevator doors in the hallway slid open with a soft whoosh.

I walked out, wiping my face.

A courier was standing there, looking out of place in the opulent foyer, holding a box.

"Package for Ms. Hayes," he said nervously, eyes darting around.

I took it. It was a cake box. White, with a satin ribbon.

I opened it.

It was a red velvet cake.

In perfect, looping crimson icing, it read:

*Sorry for your loss. Maybe next time don't flush the heir.*

There was a little fondant baby in the center.

It was headless.

I dry heaved, the bile rising in my throat.

Estella.

She knew about the abortion. She was mocking the death of my child and the death of my mentor in one sweet, sickly gesture.

The elevator dinged again.

Holden walked in, his stride confident and predatory.

He was followed by Estella and an older woman with hair like steel wool.

Annabella Blake.

The Dalton Matriarch. The true power.

"Look at her," Annabella said, her voice like grinding stones. "A mess."

Holden saw the cake. He didn't look shocked. He looked bored.

"Clean that up," he told the maid, dismissing the cruelty as if it were merely a spill.

"We have business," Annabella said, pointing a cane at me like a weapon. "The wedding is in two days. The press is still talking about your little stunt. We need to fix the narrative."

"I'm not doing anything for you," I spat, my voice shaking with rage.

Annabella stepped closer. She smelled of lavender and rot.

"You will," she said. "Or we will dig up Mr. Evans and plant heroin in his coffin. Do you want his legacy to be that of a drug dealer?"

My blood ran cold. The air left my lungs.

They had no bottom. There was no line they wouldn't cross.

"What do you want?" I asked, defeated.

"You will be a bridesmaid," Estella said, smiling a shark's smile. "You will stand next to me at the altar. You will hold my train. And you will smile. You will show the world that we are one big, happy family and that you accept your place as the lesser woman."

I looked at Holden.

He was checking his watch.

"Do it, Kenia," he said, not even glancing at me. "It's just a few hours. Then you can come back here and... rest."

Rest.

He meant rot.

"Fine," I said, my voice hollow.

"Good," Annabella said. "The fitting is in an hour. Don't be late."

They left, taking the air in the room with them.

I stood alone in the silence. I looked at the smashed cake on the floor.

I wasn't going to be a bridesmaid.

I was going to be a ghost.

I went back to the bathroom and pulled out the burner phone. I dialed the number, my fingers trembling.

"I'm ready," I said.

"Tomorrow," Gael's voice answered, steady and calm. "The wedding. Be at the altar. When the priest asks if anyone objects... run."

"Run where?"

"To the fire," he said.

And then the line went dead.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

The Caged Canary was dead.

The Thorny Rose was about to bloom.