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  I’m bewildered. My father never speaks about memories, or our childhoods, anything.

  “You came into this world screaming bloody murder,” Daddy continues, smiling proudly. “From the minute you drew breath, Avery, you’ve been a fighter. I knew you would be the one to take over the world, and so did you. You took over our world, and you made it very clear that you would always fight for what you wanted. Your mother and I didn’t know what to do with you. The only person who made you happy was your sister. That giant house with all its rooms and you weren’t happy unless she was in your crib, sleeping beside you. And she adored you. She would always say that you weren’t our baby, that you were hers. She was the only one who knew what you needed when you cried, while your mother and I stood by like we were part of the furniture.”

  Hearing about Adeline and our mom makes me cry. I look up at the ceiling, trying to preserve my makeup before tears spill over and onto my cheeks.

  “You are all I have,” Daddy says emphatically, catching a tear with his thumb before it can touch my cheek. “You mean more to me than anything, even if I’m incapable of showing it. Please trust me. There are things far worse than marrying Joshua, and I can’t protect you if you don’t do this.”

  “Things far worse? Come on,” I scoff.

  My father’s face loses any trace of the emotion he displayed just a second ago. “Would you prefer to be married to somebody worse? Would you?”

  “Who could be worse than a forty-year-old man who was a teenager before I was even born?” I demand. “He’s old enough to be my father. Doesn’t that disgust you?”

  Daddy tenses. “Not as much as the thought of you marrying Tyler Capulet. Do you really want to marry your psychotic cousin? Because if you don’t marry Joshua, my darling, who do you think the family has lined up in his place?”

  I’m stunned. Tyler is a full-blown psychopath. He’s an efficient hitman, a fabulous family representative to keep the drug cartels in line — because he’s insane. Literally and unequivocally.

  “Think about it,” my father mutters. “A headstrong wife like you would be dead inside a year if you were married to that little prick. But Avery, if you want to take your chances on your rapey cokehead of a cousin — by all means, now is the time to speak up.”

  Daddy looks at his watch. “I can call my sister now, tell her to bring Tyler’s suit and tie. And her son, of course. Just say the word.”

  I swallow thickly, fresh panic rising in my throat. Daddy doesn’t know what Ty did to me when we were younger. Or does he?

  “You know what he did to me, don’t you?” I whisper. “The night Addy died?”

  My father’s face reddens, as he nods.

  “Who told you?”

  Daddy lets out a deep breath. “Who do you think?”

  “Nathan?”

  Daddy raises his eyebrows. “Trying to get Nathan to tell me anything is like trying to get blood out of the cream-leather seats in a Mercedes Benz.”

  Realization stabs into me. “Rome.”

  “Rome Montague,” Daddy concedes.

  I shake my head. “He promised he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “I’m pretty sure he changed his mind when he saw Tyler sitting beside you at Adeline’s funeral,” Daddy says. “It was the right thing for him to do. Tyler Capulet hasn’t been welcomed into our home or our businesses since I almost killed him at your sisters wake.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Just because you don’t know what I do to keep you safe, doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing. Some things are better left unsaid.”

  I step down from the little podium, going to stand by the window. From here, I can see the afternoon sun, dipping low on the horizon. In an hour, it’ll be swallowed up by night. In less than that time, I’ll be swallowed up by my destiny.

  “Will was so sad, Daddy,” I murmur, putting my fingers against the window, looking over the city that will soon be mine, even though I don’t want it. “You should have seen him. He was … it was like something broke inside him. I broke it. And I didn’t want to.”

  I can feel my father approach behind me. “Sometimes we hurt the ones we love,” he offers, and I know he’s referring to himself and his actions as much as mine.

  “Did you hurt Mom?” I whisper. “Did she hurt you?”

  Daddy puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me gently to face him. I don’t resist. I’d much rather stay in this room forever, even if it means talking about difficult things, than go out there and face the music.

  “Your mother and I were very lucky, Avery. We knew each other from childhood. Our parents had decided early on that we would be a good match. We grew up together. We went to the same schools, we moved in the same circles. Your mother was my best friend before she was anything else. We didn’t even go on a date until we were both eighteen, but we were still brought up with the understanding that we would be married one day.”

  “How lovely for you to not have to go through this bullshit,” I say, but there’s no conviction behind my words.

  “We tried with you and Rome,” Daddy says, a darkness passing over his features momentarily as he looks away. “We didn’t realize things with the Montagues would go … the way they did.”

  “Yeah, hindsight’s a real bitch, isn’t it?” I say. Daddy spreads his palms and shrugs as if to say, what do you want me to do?

  “Dad.”

  “Avery.”

  “I want to marry Will.”

  “No,” Daddy snaps.

  “Dad!” I raise my voice, tossing my hair over my shoulder, forgetting what it’s hiding.

  Daddy sees the bruise on my neck, thanks Will, and shakes his head, reaching his fingers out to touch it. “He did hurt you.”

  I rip his hand away from my neck. “All he did was give me a damn hickey, Father. It didn’t hurt at all. You hurt me. You used me. You continue to use me. It’s not fair.”

  “Life’s not fair,” he grinds out.

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say, turning away, headed for the door. I need to find Jennifer before this thing starts.

  “Do you trust me?” Daddy asks, still at the window behind me.

  My shoulders droop. “Yes. No. I don’t know,” I whisper.

  Joshua Grayson takes the opportunity to knock on the open door, entering with the worst timing ever for the second time in one day.

  “Augustus. Avery.” He nods to each of us in greeting, a smile stretching over his tanned face, a little dimple in one cheek that I’ve never noticed before. I wonder if our children will inherit that dimple. I wonder how quickly I could find a sharp object to stab into Joshua’s cheek, right into that fucking dimple, so I never have to look at his smug smile again. I tilt my head to the side, taking him in. He looks incredible, actually, in a dark navy suit, tailored impeccably, a pair of cufflinks with the Capulet family crest stamped into them at his wrists. That irritates the hell out of me. It’s like a buy-in of a stock portfolio. An acquisition. Buy the farm, drink all the milk you want for free. And I’m the cow, being fed up for the slaughter.

  “Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before she walks down the aisle?” I snap, ignoring his attempt at cordial conversation. Really, I just want him to go away.

  “I think that’s the wedding,” Joshua replies, nonplussed by my snark, looking like he stepped out of a men’s aftershave commercial.

  I shrug. It’s all the same to me.

  “I just came in to see how you’re holding up, Avery,” Joshua says. Jesus, he’d be the best salesman. If I didn’t loathe him so much, I’d melt into a puddle under his stare. Some people are just born with this charisma that pours off them wherever they go. My father had it, before Mom died, and he can still turn it on when business demands it. Adeline had it, too. She could sell you anything just by batting her eyelids. Me? Not so much. The terms standoffish and Ice Queen have been thrown my way more than once in my life.

  “As well as can be expected,” I reply.

&nbs
p; “Your dress is stunning,” he adds. “Fit for a queen.”

  I smile icily. “Thank you. It belonged to my sister.” A lie, but whatever. I’m not going to let Joshua forget this business arrangement of his used to have a different Capulet sister attached.

  “Avery,” Daddy says sharply.

  Joshua lets the dead-sister-you-almost-married comment roll off him. I almost feel sorry for him. He’s waited a long time and invested a lot of energy and cash just to be married to a fucking bitch like me.

  “I’m sure she’d say the same if she were here,” he says smoothly.

  Daddy clears his throat. “Looks like Jennifer did a fabulous job, getting everything ready for the event.”

  "Oh, we're doing small talk now, are we?" I reply. “Are we going to pretend that Joshua didn’t hear that whole conversation in your office this morning? Because I didn’t get that memo. I should check my emails before we go out there.”

  "Avery, for God's sake," my father says. "Come on, now. I had no way of knowing what my brother was going to say to you earlier. Don’t punish Joshua for Enzo’s big mouth.”

  "Oh my God. It's not even about that," I fire back. "You betrayed me. You lied to me, and you didn't even tell me. What kind of father does that to a sixteen-year-old girl? What kind of man goes along with such a thing?”

  Joshua’s eyebrows rise slightly, and he puts his palms up in a supplicating gesture. “I’m going to leave you two to finish getting ready. Avery, you look lovely. I’ve scheduled all day tomorrow so we can meet up and talk about everything that’s on your mind. I’m not the villain, okay?”

  I stare at him blankly, until my father steps toward me and wraps one arm around my shoulders in a suffocating hug that screams: behave.

  “I’m busy tomorrow,” I reply. “What a shame.”

  “Oh, that doctor’s appointment? Something about an IUD? I had my secretary talk to your assistant. It’s been rescheduled for next week.”

  And then the smug motherfucker gives us both the most dazzling grin, complete with a wave, and closes the door behind him.

  It's happening again. My dress, which was a little loose before, is suddenly all too tight. It constricts me, pressing up against my ribs, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

  “What the FUCK?” I seethe. I turn on my father. “I hate him,” I spit, gesturing wildly at the closed door. “I HATE him!”

  I don’t even see the open palm coming at me. My face feels the sting as my father slaps me across the face hard enough that I make a choking sound in my throat. “Ow.”

  “I’m sorry,” Daddy says, straightening my hair as I hold my smarting cheek. “I didn’t know what else to do to snap you out of this state you’re in.”

  I blink, once, twice, and then without thinking, I hit him back. Right across his freshly-shaved cheek. It probably hurts me more than him, my palm buzzing angrily as I watch a red mark rise on his cheek.

  “Feel better?” he murmurs.

  I shrug, feeling embarrassed. “A little.”

  “Your self-defense is getting sloppy,” Daddy remarks. “You never used to hit like a girl.”

  “I’m usually hitting inanimate objects, not my father,” I mutter.

  “If you say so.”

  "You need to leave," I say to my father. “You need to get out of my face now, because if you don't, I am going to lose my fucking mind."

  My father sets his teeth inside his jaw so hard, I can see the vein in his forehead throb.

  "Fine," Daddy says. "I'll see you out there, I suppose."

  "I suppose you will," I reply sharply.

  “And Avery,” Daddy adds, always needing the last word. “Don’t get any ideas. Don’t try to run off. Just do as you’re told, for once in your life.”

  And he slams the door.

  I look back to the mirror, breathing deeply, letting the calm wash back over me. I've already cried enough today to last me the rest of my life. After I left the cemetery, with black eyeliner all over my face, I went straight home, sat on the floor of my shower, and cried. It was probably a good thing that it happened the way it did. I can't imagine Will’s face if the engagement had been announced at the party. In fact, I'm pretty sure he would have killed Joshua Grayson with his bare hands if he could. Thank goodness for small miracles, I guess.

  Then again, maybe it would have been a good thing if Will had spared me from having to marry such a horrible man. I’m deep in an elaborate daydream about Will and Joshua, fighting to the death for me, when Nathan enters the room without knocking. He whistles as he takes me in. "You look good," he says.

  "I should hope so," I reply. "After all, I'm the entertainment for the night."

  "Poor little rich girl," Nathan says, stroking my hair, but I know he actually feels sorry for me.

  I look at him pointedly. "What aren't you telling me?"

  He shrugs. "It's nothing."

  "Come on, spill," I say. "If I can't have any excitement in my life, at least I can live vicariously through you."

  "Well, I might've met a girl."

  "Really," I say. "And what might this girl's name be?"

  "Never you mind about that," he replies. He pulls two travel brochures out of his back pocket. "Fiji or the Caribbean?" he says. I make a face. "Poor little rich boy," I mimic him. "Can't decide where to take your new bang buddy?"

  He rolls his eyes. "Fiji it is."

  It's then that I notice the small suitcase in the corner. "When are you leaving?" I ask, suddenly alarmed.

  He shrugs. "Tomorrow, I guess. Whenever we can fire up the jet."

  "Nathan, a Capulet jet is not going to take you all the way to Fiji. You have to get on a commercial flight for that."

  "Ugh," he says, frowning. “I know, right? We're flying down to LAX in the company jet, meeting the commercial flight there. Peasants, they’ll call us.”

  "Again," I say, "Poor little rich boy."

  "I'll send you a postcard," he says.

  "How about I just stow away in your luggage?" I suggest. "I think that would be less painful to everybody. Daddy can forge my signature on the marriage certificate, put one of my embryos in a gestational carrier. Jesus, I don't even need to be here at all."

  Nathan starts fussing with my hair. "That's true," he says, "But you're forgetting the most important part."

  "What's that?" I ask.

  "The part where Joshua Grayson gets to wear you as arm candy."

  "Isn't that what Photoshop is for?"

  Nathan laughs. "I guess. Anyway, they're not going to let you leave the country, because we all know you'd never come back."

  "Well, the least you can do is pick me up a souvenir, okay?"

  "Done," Nathan says, moving my hair into the exact same style it was in when he started fussing with it.

  "It's going to be fine, Avery," Nathan says, suddenly serious. "Just get through tonight, and take it as it comes. I don't even think it will be as bad as you think it is."

  I turn on my little podium to face my cousin directly. "Nathan," I reply, "Come on, man. Don’t bullshit me. You and I both know it's going to be worse."

  Chapter Five

  AVERY

  No more minutes left on the clock; we’re at zero hour, here. No cataclysmic natural disaster has slit the earth and swallowed me whole; no superhero has swept in to rescue me.

  This is happening.

  I need somewhere to wipe my palms; but the puffy skirt of my gown doesn’t seem appropriate.

  “Avery Capulet, everyone!”

  Five hundred pairs of eyes look my way as I sashay down the middle of the glass-ceilinged ballroom my father has decked out with nauseating arrays of flowers, of twinkling fairy lights and enough champagne to fill the San Francisco Bay that shimmers beyond the heights of our palatial hotel.

  Really, that is what it’s called: The Palatial Hotel. Because it’s like a damn palace built on the edge of the financial district, full of Austrian crystal chandeliers and Calcutta marble floors.
/>   It’s unseasonably hot in San Francisco this year, especially since we’re in the middle of a heat wave. People in Southern California would probably laugh at us as they roast through their regular hundred-plus summer days, but in the North we’re a little more acclimated to clouds and wind.

  I could blame my sweaty palms on the heatwave, but it’s crisp and cold inside the hotel’s grand glass enclosure. Cold like a refrigerator. Like a morgue.

  You’re daydreaming again, Avery.

  I take a deep breath and focus on my father’s booming voice, forgetting about the crowd of family and my father’s friends. I feel like a head of cattle being marched down a market to fetch the highest bidder. Because although this is merely my twenty-fifth birthday and not an auction; almost everybody is here for one reason.

  Money.

  My money.

  The money that, according to the rules of our family’s trust, cannot be accessed by women heirs until they marry.

  Which is complete fucking bullshit. We’re living in the age of equality, yet, according to the Capulet decree, all women born bearing the Capulet name would be penniless unless they marry a man of their father’s choosing.

  Arranged marriage, in 2018? In America?

  I almost wish somebody in the crowd would shoot me, put me out of my misery. Almost.

  “Think of all that money,” I hear somebody whisper as I walk through the middle of a parted crowd. I look in the direction of the voice, finding a guilty face staring straight back at me. Jacob Goldstein. Preppy guy, Ivy League, all that crap that people spend their lives and their fortunes making sure they’ve got. I went to high school with Jacob, the most exclusive preparatory school on the West Coast of the United States. He’s been trying to get into my pants since his voice broke and I grew out of my sports bra. Sorry, buddy, you were never on the shortlist.

  Yes, I am the only surviving child of the most powerful man in California. Daddy has enough collective money and assets to rival anyone on the Forbes rich list, but he prefers to be discreet with his riches. If for no other reason than the fact that his wealth isn’t entirely honest. The Capulet family is the Rosthchild family of the criminal underworld. Only, instead of owning and controlling banks, we own and control other things.