They didn’t see me as a person. They saw me as a resource. A weak, pliable resource to be mined and discarded.
I looked down at the bouquet of lily-of-the-valley in my lap. My grandfather had built this city with his bare hands. He was a shark. My father was a lion. And they thought I was a sheep?
The tears that had gathered in my eyes didn’t fall. They evaporated, burned away by a sudden, white-hot heat rising from my chest.
I had two choices. I could run out the back door, cry to my father, and let them spin the narrative that I was a runaway bride, a “hysterical artist” who couldn’t handle the pressure. They would sue for breach of promise. They would humiliate my family.
Or.
I could walk through the front door.
I pulled out my phone. My hands weren’t shaking. I scrolled to a contact I hadn’t spoken to in months: Mark, a college friend who was now the lead sound engineer for the Grand Essex.
I typed a message. Plan B. I need you to patch a remote mic into the main PA system. Connect it to the frequency of the transmitter I used for my art installation last year. Do it now. Don’t ask questions.
Mark replied ten seconds later: Done. You okay, El?
I looked at the bouquet. I reached into my clutch, pulled out the small, high-fidelity transmitter I used for recording ambient sounds for my exhibits, and buried it deep within the dense white flowers.
I will be, I thought.
Chapter 2: The Tiger Wakes
I walked back into the bridal suite and went straight to the bathroom. I locked the door and stared into the mirror.
The woman staring back looked like a bride. But behind the eyes, something had changed. The softness was gone. The “dreamy artist” who painted watercolors and cried at sunsets was dead. Her corpse was rotting in the alcove next door.
The woman in the mirror was a CEO. She was a Carter.
“You are Elena Carter,” I whispered to my reflection, my voice low and steady. “You are the granddaughter of Silas Carter, the man who broke the unions and built the skyline. You are not prey. You are the hunter.”
I picked up my lipstick—a deep, blood-red shade. I reapplied it with the precision of a surgeon. It felt like war paint.
A knock on the door. “Elena? It’s time! The music is starting!”
I opened the door. My mother stood there, teary-eyed. “Oh, darling. You look… intense.”
“I’m just focused, Mom,” I said, flashing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
I grabbed my bouquet. I checked the small green light on the hidden transmitter. It blinked once. Active.
We moved to the entrance of the ballroom. The heavy doors were closed. I could hear the organ swelling, playing the opening notes of Pachelbel’s Canon. It was the sound of doom, though the guests thought it was the sound of love.
My father was waiting for me. He looked handsome in his tuxedo, but frail. He had been fighting health issues for years, which was exactly why Ethan and Linda were circling like vultures. They were waiting for him to die.
“Ready, my little artist?” Dad asked, offering his arm.
“More than you know, Daddy,” I said.
The doors swung open.
The light was blinding. Five hundred faces turned toward me. A sea of expensive suits and designer dresses. I saw the flashes of cameras. I saw the envy in the eyes of my frenemies. I saw the hope in the eyes of my family.
And at the end of the long, white runner, I saw him.
