Chapter 3 No Turning Back.

The sun beamed in through Isla's apartment's worn blinds in the morning, but it failed to warm her-only bright light that she had to squint her eyes against as her phone rang incessantly on her nightstand. Her heart was racing before she even got out of bed. There were dozens of missed calls, unread texts, and notifications stacked up like a tower of fear.

The first text from Nina was:

> "Isla. What the actual hell is this? Pick up your damn phone."

The second, from a former work friend:

> "You didn't mention you were getting married to Alexander Milton?? Girl, you BROKE the internet."

And finally, the worst of the bunch-an alert on a celebrity news web page, her face on the screen under the title:

"Billionaire Alexander Milton Engaged to Mystery Waitress in Stunning Power Play"

Isla looked at the photo in disbelief. It was an impromptu photo, likely snapped without her knowing, outside the restaurant. Her hair was pulled back into a sleep-deprived ponytail, apron streaked, eyes puffy. It made her look fragile. Vulnerable. An extreme contrast to the man she was seemingly going to marry.

Alexander was stone-like in his photo-icy, coiffed, impenetrable. A storm in a three-piece suit.

She read the article, stomach churning with bile as it spoke of their relationship as some fantasy Cinderella fairy story. No mention of contracts. No mention of the cost paid.

When the knock came at her door, sharp and insistent, she already had an idea who it was. Isla barely opened it before Nina pushed in, wrapped in a trench coat and wrath.

"You didn't bother to tell me you signed the contract?" Nina snapped, her eyes fiery. "You allowed me to find it on a tabloid page like some other woman?"

"Isla, I was going to-"

"When, Isla? After you walked down the aisle with the devil?"

"I didn't have a choice!" Isla's voice cracked, and the words spilled out of her like steam from a pressure valve. "I didn't want this. It's for my dad. He needs to have surgery, and this-this was the only way."

Nina froze. Her chest locked. Isla caught sight of the expression of recognition, of pain easing enough for worry. "What are you saying, the only way? What did he offer you again?"

Isla stepped back, the weight of the contract still pressing against her like a boulder under her ribs. "Two years. Marriage. Public appearances. Silence about the past. And in exchange-he'll pay the bills, cover the surgery, do it all."

Nina blinked, once, twice. "He's buying you, Isla."

Isla nodded slowly. "I know."

There was a silence. Then Nina shifted over and wrapped her arms around Isla tightly, protectively. "I loathe this. I despise him. But I'm not going to leave you."

The hug nearly killed her.

Later that afternoon, Isla posed beneath fluorescent lights in a bridal salon that smelled of cash and roses. The lace wedding dress fell across her like something borrowed-cinched, lovely, expensive. She hardly recognized the girl looking back at her.

A woman fluttered around tacking up the hem, but Isla was distracted by the entrance as the familiar click of heels echoed through the boutique. The air was suddenly acrid. She looked up.

Camila Vaughn, Alex's ex-fiancee.

Covered in white fur, red lips neatly painted, Camila didn't even pretend to be surprised at seeing Isla. Her eyes were glinting with something unpleasant as she made her way towards her.

I hardly dared to believe it," Camila said condescendingly, scrutinizing Isla as one would inspect a flea market find. "But then again, Alexander has always had a weakness for charity cases."

Isla's hands clenched at her sides, but she didn't speak.

Camila took up residence. "You really think because you stand here in front of me in lace and satin that you've gained something? Please, sweetheart. That man does not marry women-he hires them. He's through with them, he discards them. And you're already falling behind."

Isla gagged. "Then why did you come?"

"Because I wanted to see it for myself," Camila said, a smile stretching her face. "The girl he's chosen to shame himself with."

Before Isla could utter a word, Camila spun around and departed, perfume trailing like poison in the air.

The dress was too heavy now, as if it might shatter her bones.

Across town, Alexander stood in his father's private office-a large corner room with views of Manhattan. Leather armchairs, crystal decanters, and centuries of money permeated the room like oil.

You're crazy," James Milton exclaimed, slamming a print of the engagement headline on the table between them. "A waitress? You think this is how our family maintains power?"

Alexander's position was ramrod-straight. "It has nothing to do with power."

"Then why? Is it guilt? Desire? Sentiment?"

"It's strategy.".

James's eyes narrowed. "Tactics that leave you looking weak. She is the daughter of the man who killed your mother, and now you parade her as your bride? What's the plan?"

Alexander's voice was firm. "You wouldn't know."

"No. I wouldn't. Because you were taught to conquer, not stoop to humiliating yourself for some broken girl with tears in her eyes.".

Alexander's jaw relaxed, the fire of anger in his eyes dwindling. "It's done."

His father's gaze turned cold. "Well, then you'd best hope it was worth it."

That night, Isla returned home, shoulders slumped under unspoken weights. Her phone had finally gone quiet. The media storm had blown over-at least, for now-but damage had been done. Everyone recognized her name. Everyone had an opinion.

She stood in silence until someone knocked again. This time, a man in a gray suit-a delivery man long with Conor, Alex's Assistant. The delivery man delivered an envelope, smiled politely, and left without a word.

Inside was one sheet of paper, printed on heavy, handsome card stock.

> The Milton Family humbly invites you to join us for the marriage of Alexander Milton and Isla Grant.

Saturday, 12:00 PM | The Glass Pavilion, Fifth Avenue.

Formal attire. No exceptions for arriving.

Conor glanced aside, his gaze not being able to reciprocate hers. No escape. No delay. No turning back.

She placed the invitation alongside the contract and pushed them along the kitchen counter as a unit.

There was no room for dreams anymore. Only duties. Only commitments.

The wedding was drawing near. And she was walking toward it with open eyes-and a closing heart.