The week had whizzed by like a speeding train, and I felt like I’d missed my boarding call.
Tomorrow was the big day—the wedding was set for noon. But first, we had to get through tonight’s rehearsal dinner. And here I was, still fussing over table settings and string lights.
I ticked off another item on my checklist and dashed off to see if the florist had arrived. Now, don’t get me wrong, I had a soft spot for Arya.
Despite the short time we’d known each other, I genuinely liked her. But boy, could she splurge!
Every day, she’d come up with a fresh batch of ideas from glossy magazines, and it was my job to hunt down the materials.
I felt a twinge of guilt for the brother who was footing the bill, but hey, I didn’t hand her the proverbial keys to the kingdom.
That was all on the brother who’d been signing the checks I kept passing to the vendors. We hadn’t met yet.
My phone buzzed, pulling me out of my thoughts. The high-profile makeup artist Arya had requested was due to arrive tomorrow morning, but I’d pulled some strings.
She was flying in from Los Angeles, and I’d managed to convince her to work her magic tonight as well for the rehearsal dinner.
I shot Arya a message to let her know the makeup artist was on her way. I just hoped this would keep Arya content and stave off any more of her “tweaks,” as she liked to call them.
I pocketed my phone and hurried back to the lobby, just in time to greet another guest pulling up out front.
Arya’s “tweaks” had been a thorn in my side all week, and if I ever saw that word again after tomorrow, I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions.
An older man stepped out of the car, and I greeted him with a smile, assuring him that my team would take care of his luggage and I’d personally escort him to his room.
Just twenty-four more hours and this whole ordeal would be over. That’s what I needed to keep in mind.
“Rory, you’re the best!” Arya’s voice rang out as she spotted me guiding her Uncle John to his room.
The floor plan I was using to help her family find their rooms was more like a treasure map than a blueprint.
If this wasn’t a democracy, I’d start to suspect some royal blood in the people I was escorting. The longer I stayed here, the more it felt like a palace, not a mansion.
I was pretty sure they were old money.
Of course, the day I decided to wear heels was the day I had to climb the grand staircase a gazillion times. But I didn’t really mind. The artwork lining the staircase was stunning.
Each time I led someone up, I discovered something new.
“You got my message then?” I asked, unable to hide my pride.
Madam Von Cleeves was a tough negotiator, and she’d only agreed to my terms if I could secure her a night at the Ritz as part of her payment.
“She just messaged again. Oh, she’s here!” Arya shrieked, and her bridesmaids spilled out into the hallway to see what the commotion was about.
“Rory, could you go get her and bring her up?” Arya’s face was glowing like a firework display, and I agreed instantly, wrapping up my tour of Uncle John’s room and welcome basket.
I could use a break from the noise, and I’d left my map downstairs anyway. It was a silly mistake, but Uncle John had been an intriguing character, even if he was a bit forgetful.
He kept rambling about wolves, which made me think of a fairy tale.
My heels clicked against the marble floors that stretched across the entire hallway and staircase. I couldn’t even begin to guess how much that cost.
I was admiring a painting of a famous astronomer as I walked by when I caught a whiff of him—sweat and too much cologne.
Just when I thought I’d mastered the art of dodging the groom, he found me. For the past few days, I’d endured his leering at my chest and butt every time we spoke, while tactfully declining his offer for a tour.
Even though this place felt as grand as Buckingham Palace, something told me not everything was as it seemed. My gut told me to avoid being alone with him.
But now, here I was, alone in a deserted corridor with the very man I’d been avoiding.
“Madame Von Cleeves? I’m on my way to get her,” I replied, watching him sway, trying to keep a safe distance.
Mike was a wreck—his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks flushed. But I had to stay professional and polite.
“No, I was sent by someone else,” he said, grinning like he thought he was being mysterious and charming, not incredibly irritating as he stumbled closer.
“Who, Mike?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, annoyed by his encroaching presence, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Me.”
Before I could ask what on earth he meant, he lunged at me, and his intentions became painfully clear.
One hand grabbed my breast, the other clamped onto my butt. I tried to push him away, but he held on, forcing his mouth onto mine.
I got a mouthful of the alcohol on his foul breath, which was enough to turn my stomach.
I fought to pull away, finally managing to free my mouth. I pleaded with him to stop, but it was no use. He either didn’t hear me or didn’t care, and I had a sinking feeling it was the latter.
He pushed me against the wall, using his solid body to keep me there. I tried to shove him off, but his firm hand was already around my neck.
My blouse was ripped, my hair was half undone, and I could feel the bruises forming where his hands had roughly grabbed me.
My vision started to blur, the world dimming as the pressure on my throat intensified. I couldn’t help but think that this jerk might actually kill me tonight.
As my attempts to fight back grew weaker, my desperation soared. I prayed that my last breaths might somehow deter him. I tried to scream for help, but it came out as nothing more than a whisper.
That was my final effort, and it had failed. Was this really how I was going to die?
