Chapter 3: Carter corners Sloane in the staff hallway, their furious whispers turning to bruising kisses as the wedding ring in his pocket digs into her thigh through the thin lace of her ruined dress.
The harsh fluorescent buzz of the staff corridor died abruptly as the kitchen door slammed shut behind Carter, leaving Sloane alone in the sudden quiet. Her back pressed against the cool, rough concrete wall, the imprint of his grip still burning on her hips. Her lips throbbed, swollen from the brutal, claiming kiss. Tell me to stop and I will. The lie echoed, sour alongside the phantom taste of him – whiskey and desperation. Her body, traitorous and humming, remembered the heat, the pressure, the terrifying rightness warring violently with the crushing wrongness.
She slid down the wall, knees giving way, landing hard on the cold linoleum. The scrape on her leg stung. She buried her face in her hands, the scent of industrial cleaner sharp in her nose, mixing with the lingering trace of Carter’s leather jacket. What have I done? The question wasn’t just about the kiss in the corridor, but Vegas, the parking lot, the monumental betrayal unfolding minute by minute. Loyalty to her mother warred with the visceral memory of Carter’s mouth, his hands. And beneath it all, a cold, seeping dread: He knew who I was. He pursued her anyway.
The muffled thump of bass from the reception felt like a taunt. Celebration. Unity. Lies. She couldn’t go back out there. Couldn’t face Vivian’s radiant happiness, Carter’s effortless charm, the knowing glances she imagined on every guest’s face. She needed sanctuary. The bridal suite. Vivian would be downstairs for a while yet, basking in the pre-wedding glow. It was the only place Sloane could think of.
Pushing herself up, her legs shaky, she navigated the labyrinthine service corridors, following faded signs towards the main house's upper floors. Each step felt heavy, deliberate, like walking through tar. Peony-scented air replaced the cleaning fluid smell as she emerged onto the plush carpet of the guest wing. The silence here was different – deep, expectant, broken only by the distant murmur of the party below.
The door to the bridal suite stood slightly ajar. Sloane slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. The room was a cloud of ivory silk and lace. Vivian’s wedding gown hung suspended on a mannequin near the window, a masterpiece of embroidery catching the moonlight. Bottles of perfume, half-packed toiletry bags, and discarded tissue paper littered the vanity. Vivian’s familiar lavender scent hung in the air, a comforting presence that now felt like a reproach. Sloane sank onto the edge of the enormous bed, the luxurious comforter swallowing her. The silence pressed in.
Then, voices. Harsh, carrying through the slightly open window overlooking a small, dark courtyard below. Male voices, tense and low.
"...messed up, Carter. Seriously messed up." A voice Sloane vaguely recognized – Derek, Carter’s younger brother, the anxious best man who’d spilled wine during his toast.
A low growl. Carter. "Don't start, Derek."
"Don't start?" Derek’s voice pitched higher. "You think this is sustainable? Marrying Vivian for her money while her daughter–"
"Keep your voice down!" Carter snapped, sharp as broken glass. "It's not about the money."
"The hell it isn't!" Derek hissed. "You told me yourself, the bar’s drowning. That loan Shark, Kovacs… he’s not patient. You said Vivian’s inheritance was the only way out before he breaks your kneecaps. Or worse. And now Sloane? Jesus, Carter! You screwed her in Vegas! Now she's your stepdaughter? How is this not about the money?"
Sloane froze, icy water flooding her veins. The air vanished from the room. Money. Loan shark. Kneecaps. The words slammed into her, shattering the fragile construction of Carter’s earlier lies. He didn’t just know who I was… he sought out Vivian deliberately. The Vegas fling hadn’t been coincidence; it had been reconnaissance. Or just collateral damage. Her stomach lurched.
"You think I planned this?" Carter’s voice was raw, stripped bare of its usual controlled rumble. "Vivian walked into my bar, Derek. Months after Vegas. She was just… bright. Kind. Everything wasn't fucking chaos. Yeah, the money… it became part of it. A lifeline. But not why."
"So you're marrying her out of the goodness of your heart and to save your ass?" Derek sounded incredulous, disgusted. "And Sloane? What happens when she blows this whole thing sky-high? Because she will, Carter. She’s not stupid. That look she gave you at dinner? Pure venom."
A long pause. Sloane crept silently to the window, pressing herself against the wall, peering down into the shadowed courtyard. Carter stood facing his brother, his back rigid, head bowed. Derek paced, running a hand through his hair.
"I'll handle Sloane," Carter finally said, the words heavy, final.
"How? More lies? Smooth talk? You saw her bolt from the parking lot. You think another kiss in a dark corner will fix this?" Derek’s laugh was brittle. "You're in over your head. Way over. This isn't just messing with Vivian’s money, it’s messing with her daughter. That’s a different level of screwed."
"I know!" Carter exploded, the sudden volume making Sloane jump. He whirled on Derek, his profile etched in sharp relief by the moonlight. The veneer of control was gone, replaced by pure, desperate frustration. "You think I don't know? It was supposed to be simple. Clean. Help Vivian, help myself. Then Sloane walked into that restaurant..." He trailed off, dragging a hand down his face. "It’s not simple anymore."
"No shit," Derek muttered. "So what’s the play? Marry the mom while secretly wanting the daughter? Hope Kovacs doesn’t show up at the reception with a baseball bat? This is a time bomb, Carter."
"I just need tomorrow," Carter said, his voice dropping back to that low, urgent rasp. "Just the wedding. Once it’s done… the money clears the debt. Then… then I figure out the rest. With Sloane."
"Figure out what with Sloane?" Derek demanded. "You think after this, she’ll want anything to do with you? You think Vivian will? You’re playing with fire, man. With lives."
"I don't have a choice!" Carter’s voice cracked. It was the sound of a man cornered, stripped of options. "Kovacs isn’t giving me more time. This wedding happens tomorrow, Derek. It has to. Whatever comes after… that’s after. Just… keep your mouth shut and get me through the ceremony."
Silence descended again, thick and suffocating. Sloane watched, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Carter turned away from his brother, shoulders slumped, the picture of a man buckling under a weight too heavy to bear. Not just the debt. The lie. The tangled mess he’d created. He needs the wedding to happen. To pay off a loan shark. The brutal clarity of it cut through her previous confusion, leaving only cold, hard fury. And beneath the fury, a terrifying pang of something else… pity?No. He doesn’t deserve it.
Derek muttered something indistinguishable, then footsteps crunched on gravel, fading away. Carter stood alone for a long moment, head down, a dark silhouette against the moonlit garden wall. Then he straightened, rolling his shoulders, the vulnerable man disappearing as he visibly rebuilt his walls. He turned and walked back towards the service entrance, disappearing inside.
Sloane stepped back from the window, trembling violently. The pieces clicked with sickening clarity. The urgency at the parking lot – not just lust, but panic. His insistence she keep quiet – protecting his lifeline, Vivian’s money. His conflicted heat – desire tangled with desperate necessity. He was using her mother. Deliberately. Calculatingly. And she was the inconvenient complication, the wrench thrown into his mercenary plan.
She needed air. Real air. Not the peony-scented prison of the suite. Spinning around, her gaze swept the room. Her clutch lay abandoned on the vanity. She grabbed it, fumbling for the door handle. As she turned, her hip bumped a dark, heavy jacket slung over the back of an armchair near the door. Carter’s suit jacket. He must have left it during the chaos earlier.
It slid off the chair, landing in a heap on the plush carpet. Something small and flimsy fluttered out from an inside pocket. Instinctively, Sloane bent, picking it up. It was a photo, slightly creased.
Her breath stopped.
It was a Polaroid. Grainy, slightly out of focus, bathed in the garish neon glow of a Vegas club. Her own face, eyes bright with tequila and reckless abandon, laughing wildly. Her head was thrown back, red hair cascading over her bare shoulders. She was perched on Carter’s lap, his arm tight around her waist, his face buried against her neck. He wasn’t smiling. He looked intense, focused, almost predatory. Possessive. It was the picture she vaguely remembered a stranger snapping for them after their third round of shots, the one she thought nothing of, the one she assumed was lost in the blur of the night.
He kept it. He’d kept it all this time. Through meeting Vivian. Dating her. Proposing. He’d carried this incriminating evidence in his pocket. Why? A trophy? A reminder of his target’s daughter? Or… something else?
The door clicked open.
Sloane whipped around, clutching the Polaroid behind her back. Vivian stood there, a serene smile on her face, flushed with happiness and champagne. "There you are, sweetheart! I was worried. Feeling better? You missed the cake cutting!"
Vivian’s gaze swept the room, landing on the jacket on the floor. "Oh, Carter’s jacket. Clumsy man." She moved to pick it up, oblivious to the storm raging in her daughter’s eyes, oblivious to the crumpled photograph burning a hole in Sloane’s clenched fist behind her back. "Come, darling," Vivian said brightly, hanging the jacket neatly back on the chair. "It’s almost midnight. One last toast before we turn in? Tomorrow’s the big day!"
Sloane stared at her mother’s radiant, trusting face. She felt the sharp corners of the Polaroid digging into her palm. Carter’s desperate words echoed: I just need tomorrow. The wedding. The money. The debt. The photo felt like a live wire. She forced a stiff nod, her voice trapped in her throat. "Sure, Mom. One last toast." She slipped the photo into the hidden pocket of her ruined dress, the physical proof of Carter’s deceit searing against her skin as she followed her unsuspecting mother back towards the glittering facade of the celebration. The final countdown had begun.
The final countdown had begun. Sloane followed her mother back to the chaotic warmth of the terrace, the Polaroid a searing brand against her hip bone through the thin pocket lining. Vivian chattered about the cake’s lemon curd filling, her hand light on Sloane’s arm. Sloane nodded, her gaze scanning the crowd. She spotted Carter near the bar, accepting a whiskey from Uncle Frank, his posture relaxed, the desperate man from the courtyard vanished as if painted over. His eyes met hers across the distance, a flash of something unreadable before he turned, laughing at something Frank said. The ease of it scraped her nerves raw.
"Midnight toast!" someone shouted, glasses clinking. Vivian pressed a fresh flute into Sloane’s hand. "To new beginnings, darling!" Vivian chimed, her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. Carter materialized beside Vivian, his arm sliding possessively around her waist. He raised his own glass, his smile aimed solely at Sloane’s mother. "To the most beautiful woman here," he murmured, his voice thick with an affection that felt like acid poured down Sloane’s throat. "Tomorrow can't come soon enough."
Sloane forced her glass up, the champagne bubbles stinging her nose. "To beginnings," she echoed, the words ash. She didn’t drink. Carter’s gaze flickered to her untouched glass, then back to her face, a silent question, a warning. His thumb stroked Vivian’s silk-covered hip. The Polaroid seemed to pulse against Sloane’s skin. Tell her, a voice screamed inside her head. Tell her now. Show her the picture. Show her the truth about her rock, her lifeline. But Vivian leaned into Carter, sighing contentedly, utterly trusting. Destroying her tonight, on the eve of what she believed was her greatest happiness? Sloane’s hand tightened on the stemware. She set it down, untouched. The moment passed.
Hours later, silence pressed heavy in the bridal suite. Vivian slept peacefully, one hand resting on the empty pillow beside her where Carter should have been after the rehearsal. Sloane lay rigid in the plush guest bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, the overheard conversation replaying on a loop: Kovacs… kneecaps… the money… handle Sloane. The Polaroid lay hidden under her pillow, its edges digging into her scalp like a guilty thought. His face buried in her neck in the neon glow, the possessive intensity she’d drunkenly mistaken for passion. Had any of it been real? Or just… reconnaissance? Dawn bleached the edges of the heavy curtains. The wedding was today. Today, he secured Vivian’s money. Today, the lie became legally binding.
Breakfast was a symphony of forced cheer. Vivian glowed, picking at fruit salad, radiating pre-wedding bliss. Carter, freshly shaved and impeccably dressed, poured coffee with an easy charm that made Sloane’s stomach churn. He handed her a mug, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. "Sleep okay?" he asked, his voice low, intimate. His eyes held hers, searching for cracks in her resolve.
"Like a baby," Sloane lied, her voice flat. She pulled her hand back. "You?"
"Eventually," he said, his gaze drifting meaningfully towards Vivian, humming as she admired her engagement ring in the sunlight. The implication – his night spent elsewhere – was a calculated barb. "Big day. Nerves, you know."
"Must be terrifying," Sloane bit out, stirring her coffee with unnecessary force. "So much riding on it."
Carter’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Vivian looked up, oblivious. "Oh, Carter doesn’t get nerves! Do you, darling? He’s my steady rock." She beamed at him. "Unlike this one," she nudged Sloane playfully. "You look pale, sweetheart. Bridesmaid jitters? Or was it that third glass of champagne last night?"
"Just tired," Sloane mumbled. The weight of the Polaroid in her dress pocket was a constant drumbeat against her thigh. Carter watched her over the rim of his coffee cup, his expression unreadable again. The charade was suffocating.
Chaos descended as stylists arrived, transforming the suite into a hive of hairspray and silk. Sloane endured the ministrations – the tugging of her dark green bridesmaid dress, the pinning of her riotous red curls – feeling like a mannequin. Vivian, resplendent in her robe, flitted between mirrors, radiating pure joy. Sloane’s moment came when Vivian was momentarily distracted, deep in discussion about her veil. Sloane slipped out, needing air, needing distance from the cloying perfume and peonies. She found a deserted alcove overlooking the now-empty ceremony garden, the white chairs pristine under the morning sun.
The scent of leather and soap announced him before he spoke. Carter leaned against the doorway, blocking her exit, still in his casual pre-ceremony clothes. He looked tired beneath the surface calm, shadows under his eyes. "Avoiding the estrogen storm?" he asked, his tone deceptively light. He stepped closer, invading the small space. "Or avoiding me?"
Sloane didn’t back down. She lifted her chin, meeting his dark gaze. "Just getting some air before I have to watch you marry my mother for her money." The accusation hung there, sharp and naked.
Carter flinched, a crack in the facade. His eyes darted down the hallway, checking for listeners. "It’s not that simple, Sloane."
"Isn't it?" She pulled the creased Polaroid from her pocket, holding it up. The neon glare, their tangled limbs, his face against her skin – undeniable. "Reconnaissance? Or just a twisted souvenir?"
He stared at the photo, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Raw emotion flashed across his face – not guilt, but something hotter, fiercer. Desire? Anger? Regret? He moved fast, closing the distance, his hand snapping out not to grab the photo, but her wrist. His grip was firm, urgent. "That was never part of the plan," he hissed, his voice low and rough. "You weren't supposed to be here."
"Tough luck," she spat, trying to yank her arm back. His grip tightened. "Let go."
His other hand came up, not to strike, but to trace the line of her jaw with shocking tenderness, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. His touch sent electric shivers through her, warring violently with her fury. "You look… luminous in that dress," he murmured, his eyes locked on hers, his voice a low thrum that vibrated deep in her chest. It was the same word he’d used in Vegas, whispered against her skin before dawn. The memory slammed into her, weakening her knees. "Green suits you. Like fire contained."
"Don't," she breathed, the word barely audible. Her traitorous body leaned infinitesimally towards his heat.
"Don't what?" His thumb lingered, his gaze intense, searching. "Don't remember? Don't want?" He leaned in, his breath warm on her ear, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a physical caress. "Tell me you don't feel this… this thing pulling us together, even now. Even knowing everything."
She couldn't speak. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. His proximity, the familiar scent of him, the dizzying contrast of his tender touch and the brutal reality of the situation short-circuited her thoughts. His lips were dangerously close to hers. She felt the phantom pressure, the remembered heat. Tell me to stop and I will. The hallway was silent, the distant salon chatter muffled. His hand slid from her jaw to cradle the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her carefully pinned hair. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Her breath hitched.
"You know I won't stop," he breathed, the words a dark confession. "Not unless you make me." He dipped his head, his intention terrifyingly clear.
Panic and desire warred, a volatile mix. She jerked her head back, pulling against his grip. "Vivian—"
"Is getting her hair pinned," he cut in, relentless, his lips brushing her temple, sending sparks down her spine. "We have minutes. Just minutes." His mouth trailed down, finding the frantic pulse point at the base of her throat. The contact was electric, a jolt that bypassed reason. A helpless whimper escaped her. His grip on her wrist loosened, his arm sliding around her waist instead, pulling her flush against him. The hard planes of his body pressed into hers, erasing space, erasing thought. He kissed the hollow of her throat, his breath hot. "God, Sloane," he groaned against her skin, the sound raw and desperate. "The things I want to do to you…"
The sound of approaching voices – high-pitched laughter, the click of heels – shattered the moment. Carter froze, then pulled back so fast it left her swaying. He smoothed his shirt, his expression snapping back to neutral, the desperate lover instantly replaced by the dutiful groom. He plucked the Polaroid from her now-limp fingers and tucked it swiftly into his own pocket, his touch impersonal now. "Later," he said, the word clipped, final. He stepped out of the alcove just as two of Vivian’s friends rounded the corner.
"Carter! Hiding from the madness?" one trilled.
"Just checking on the setup," he replied smoothly, flashing a charming smile completely devoid of the heat that had just scorched her. "Excuse me, ladies." He walked away without a backward glance, leaving Sloane leaning against the cool wall, trembling, her skin burning where his lips had been, the phantom weight of the Polaroid gone, replaced by the crushing weight of the vow he was about to make to her unsuspecting mother. The ceremony bells began to chime.